


ᵖʰⁱˡᵒᵖʰᵒᵇᵉ ⁻ ᵃ ʲᵒʰⁿˡᵒᶜᵏ ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜᵗⁱᵒⁿ

by shiterature



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalypse, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 155,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiterature/pseuds/shiterature
Summary: [Imported from my Wattpad account]❝ⁱ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵒᵒⁿ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵒⁿ‧ ⁱ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵃʳˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵈᵒʷⁿ‧ ⁱ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃˡˡ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃʸ ᵃʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉᵃʳᵗʰ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵒᵘˢᵃⁿᵈˢ ᵒᶠ ⁱⁿᵗʳⁱᶜᵃᵗᵉ ᶜⁱʳᶜˡᵉˢ‧❞- 𝔭𝔥𝔦•𝔩𝔬•𝔭𝔥𝔬•𝔟𝔦•𝔞: (𝔫.) 𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔯𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩 ғ𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔬ғ ғ𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢. -London has never been the same after the sudden drought. The economy has completely flatlined, homes have fallen apart, and there have been so many deaths that most bodies are simply dumped into the ocean whenever they drop. It hasn't rained since November of the year 2007, and John Watson, invalided home from Afghanistan on account of a wounded shoulder, has only three things on the agenda:1.) Make connections.2.) Find resources.3.) Stay the hell away from Sherlock Holmes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Miss Paron's Drizzled Scones

Before the internet was shut down, you could find information on just about anyone.

If you tried, you could find life synopses of very specific people as well, whether they be famous or completely solitary and living in a caravan by a small lake nobody's ever named. And so, if you really, really tried; if you really had the time and energy to scroll past all the sponsored advertisements about electric cars, boycotting coal-burning factories and voting for a carbon tax, you would maybe know this:

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was born on a dark January night - the sixth of it, to be exact - and he could crack any code you dared put in his hands. Any combination lock you gave him could be opened within five minutes if you brought him a preserved human finger or a squirrel skull. You could also bring him coffee, as long as you remembered that he only took his coffee black. Cream made it taste bland and boring. And he was easily bored. He got so bored, to be precise, that he would cause destruction just so he could be ordered to pick up the pieces again.

If you even bothered to read more, you would find that he had a brother who was so high-up in the government they didn't even bother giving him a title, or perhaps you'd find the name Redbeard splattered across a few articles, telling a cold tale about a dog of his that maybe wasn't a dog. C2309 would be a common sight as well; something I haven't enough time to explain quite yet but something still deeply attached to the very essence of him. But, most of all - and this is the important part - Sherlock only liked working alone.

Holmes had connections, yes. He would gain things from other people. There was no other way. It was the Thing To Do.

He was not solitary nor lonely. He had a small group of vigilantes by his side who he would spend time with. He had people he stole from, people he traded with, people he dealt to. But he still worked alone. Because alone protected him. And nobody, no matter what, would be able to change that, even if they tried their absolute best. Not even the prettiest woman you could find would even sway him the slightest. Not the boldest eyes or the sweetest persona or the purest heart could even make a dent in his machine of a mind.

So, naturally, Fate made up her mind. As a precautionary measure, she threw something else at him instead, just so his boredom wouldn't rub off on her as well.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

A week ago, this was reality to Miss Parson:

First off, London was no place for business. Not anymore.

Riches to rags was what it was. It hadn't rained for over a year. There was no freshwater anywhere nearby, no money, no medicine. People were always dying, almost to the point of which it was more annoying than it was unsettling. And every building looked like a slum. Well, to put it more honestly, every building was.

But, nevertheless, Alena Mae Parson wanted to ignore that. In the middle of Central London, she wanted to open up a shop. She'd sell baked goods, she decided. For a low price, of course. Or perhaps trading items instead of actual money as payment would work. Besides, way down in the vault in her basement, she had a whole bunch of old currency left, anyway. Coins and notes in stacks, just sitting there. It was pointless these days. Got you nothing.

She tied her hair up on the back of her head and smoothed it out in the front with her bare hand. Her clothes were dirty and ragged, but they were still considered a luxury. She still wore clothing like the rich, with mini-skirts and tight-fitting tops with the buttons all polished. Practicality was far from the objective. What she wanted was power, or perhaps just to look like it was something she had. It was all pink, what she wore. The clothes were her sister-in-law's, who'd been killed a few months prior, and she wore them as a sort of tribute. It may have been browned from all the dirt and faded from the invading sunlight, but still pink. Something one would notice if they spotted it across a room. And Miss Parson liked being noticed.

Central London, being an extremely popular tourism location, had always been a clever option in her mind to open up a shop. A perfect location, since, during that time, that's where everyone flocked. Even after it stopped raining and resources stopped being imported, the people living up in the far-off countryside used the last of the fuel in their cars to get there. So she knew she'd get business.

Her plan was quite simple, and it was this, verbatim:

\- Find a vacant building in Central London, preferably without windows in case the police force comes back anytime soon, so then they can't look in.

\- Fix it up a bit. Clean it, tweak a few things. She had the resources, after all.

\- Begin baking. She didn't need to pay for the space, obviously. Nobody owned anything there anymore. Nobody dared. It was too risky and far too poor a location.

She knew people would come. She knew for certain because that was the only food anyone knew of, except for dead animals, which were extremely difficult to catch or get ahold of at all, even when trading was concerned. And she liked the idea of providing them with baked goods. It'd help fatten them up. Everyone was too skinny. Either that, or they were bloated due to starvation, their bellies so unreasonably swollen you might be able to pop them with the gentle touch of a sewing needle. They could all use a bakery.

She had hauled all of her rations secretly to her desired location during the gruelling days of the past few weeks. Flour and sugar and recipe books, all loaded on a cart and pulled back and forth from her home to the location and back again. She did this in the day because everyone came out at night. The reason for this was because they thought everyone else would be out in the day and they had a better chance of getting around safely when the sun was down. It was like a reverse-psychology trick. Or perhaps they were doing it just out of routine.

She had hauled seventy-four individual gallons of drinking water to her chosen building, storing them in the back room and beginning to lay out her things. She just had one more thing to do, and that was to retrieve her money and her extra matches and begin working.

Leaving the building, Alena Mae Parson sealed the door with an old combination lock she'd had lying around. Nobody was to access her rations unless they paid for them. And the water was for herself.

She walked in a fancy, cliché style, one foot exactly in front of the other one, still in dramatic, shiny high-heels. Her feet were blistered from all the walking, and she left the cart by the door of the shop, not even thinking once that it was her shoes that were the problem. Likewise, she was never one to sense problems at all.

This was proven within five minutes of her departure. Before she was even halfway home, a chilling sense came over her, washing through her stomach like an uncomfortable mini-tsunami. And this was no preconceived notion or sense of intuition. The discomfort was caused by a sudden dose of overwhelming pain.

The thing with pain is that it takes moments for it to set in. It's never immediate. When something hurts, there are always a few seconds of confused fuzz, a high-pitched tone in your ear, a multiple-second long dissociative episode. You're dazed for some moments before you realise just how much something hurts. And this was how Parson was. Standing still in her spot on the street, she felt her eyes travel down her legs until, with a sudden and terrorised jolt, she came to terms with the problem:

A knife.

Stunned and numb for a second or so, Miss Parson froze, looking down at her thigh and watching blood slowly ooze out of her fresh, unwelcome wound. Stab wounds don't work in the way that she thought they did. Blood doesn't go very far until you take the knife out. But, on that day, in that moment, it was still very much in her, and so only one small trickle travelled down to her foot, pooling up at the top of her pink shoe and eventually dropping down the edge of that as well.

She glanced back up, still too shocked to feel the agony or even be frightened at all, and saw the owner of the weapon. He was a shorter man, and he watched her intensely as her knees slowly buckled and she collapsed to the ground, finally, finally screaming out as the pain made its way to her conscious awareness.

Parson didn't scream for long. Her voice was cut short as someone came up behind her and swung an axe at her neck. There were random spurts of blood then, flesh being mangled and her windpipe snapping in half. This was common here in London these days. It's how things were. It's how things, presumably, still are. Dying at the hands of another human being here was nothing to be shocked about.

Alena Mae Parson had been grabbed by the men and beaten to a pulp - unfortunately in a very literal sense - in a narrow alleyway. They were starving, their bellies bloated and inflamed from their lack of food. Too hungry to think rationally, they hacked at her body until the moment she stopped blubbering. Sadly, since it's quite hard to decapitate a person, this took over a minute.

As the reddened, smoggy sun sank, the shop remained locked. Miss Parson, predictably, remained dead.

And Sherlock Holmes, listening and monitoring everything from just a few blocks down, remained clever.


	2. On Account of his Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson arrives in apocalyptic London.

«His battles were internal, raging wars inside his head. 'Till the end he was a soldier,  
'Cause the fight was never over»

-Alec Benjamin: The Colonel's Journal

-

Before returning to London, John H. Watson is aware of two things.

One - Everything is limited, and people are dangerous.

Two - and this is the one he's most adamant about - It'd have been better to just stay in Afghanistan.

At least, that's what he's heard. Though the English economy has flat-lined more quickly than the climate did, they are still providing the army with all they possibly can, which is, frankly put, a lot more than what he knows he's stepping into.

Leaving Afghanistan wasn't his choice. It was theirs. He got shot in the shoulder, and he was sent back home on account of it. But with all the destruction around, he knows that the bottom of the Pacific Ocean would still feel more like the London he used to know.

However, things change, he reminds himself. Christ, even he's changed. Why expect London to be any different?

But this carefree attitude doesn't hold up for long. Once he's escorted to London by a few government officials, he grabs on tightly to his extra change of clothes and reminds himself not to lose them, for finding new attire, he realises, isn't likely at all. And, inconveniently, he's known for losing things.

He knows himself to lose things, rather. Other people don't see him that way. Usually what happens is they lose him. Because people are idiots.

"It's an eyesore, innit?" an escort remarks as he notices John staring absently at the destruction before him. John's lips are slightly parted, and he lets out a small breath before nodding solemnly and turning back to him.

"It's bloody awful, that's what," he chokes out. He will have to live in this. He wants so badly to go back to war, which is a thought so unlikely and foreign to him that he's shocked he even came up with such an intrusive thing.

There is no green anywhere. No pretty white buildings or black gates. All dirt and sand and dust. To him, it feels like a nightmare. As the escort sees it, it's a show. He gets to see who wins and who doesn't, and he gets to stay outside of it. John, though, has to go in. He has to enter it very, very soon.

The escort nods, crossing his arms and leaning up against the chopper from which they came. "Aye," he agrees, his eyes sombre and understanding. "It's dangerous. The people here are dangerous. I've some pointers for you if you're willing to listen. Heard them from a friend down here." He kicks some pebbles away from under his feet as John nods desperately.

"Please," he said. "I'll take any advice. Anything to survive."

The streets are completely silent in an eerie sort of sense. It's a ghost town, except even each individual grain of sand below his feet seems to be dead, too. No movement, no sound, no stimulation whatsoever. Not even stray animals are visible. John thinks with a start that it's possible there are none left.

The escort sighs compassionately and nods. "Not sure if I'm remembering it exactly correct," he says, "but this here town is like an apocalypse. Things are dead. People are dead. Everyone is going mad, people against each other. There are gangs and groups, sure, but you'd be bloody lucky to get in one. Most everyone works on their own. And that's why you should trust no one."

John feels his heart rate rising in his chest. "Well, sounds to me like I'm one hundred percent fucked."

His remark, though almost completely serious, is returned with a sarcastic snort from the escort. "But that's not all," he continues, "because you need to know how to survive. There's nothing here. No food, no water, and no trustworthy people. Don't drink out of the rivers. They's all saltwater, and all of them are dirty anyways. Don't kill yourself off straightaway." He leaves out every hard t rather than pronouncing any, and John likes how it sounds. Not like he pronounces every one that he speaks. He's somewhere in the middle.

John Watson swallows the fear that's accumulating in the very back of his throat. Fear has a taste, he notices. And it's absolutely vile. He marvels at how he has never noticed that before, even after those restless years in the war.

"How do I get water then, mate?" he asks impatiently. He's here to stay alive, not to listen to a speech about what resources aren't available. But, if he's being honest, he's mostly using anger to cover up how intangibly terrified he actually is. The escort shrugs.

"Not sure," he replies monotonously. "Ask around, I suppose."

"But you said not to trust anyone."

"Aw, you miserable bloke," the escort chortles. "What's the worst that could happen if you ask questions? London might look it, but it ain't no damned apocalypse." He looks down at his feet then, and then back up at John. "Well, it kind of is."

John sighs in attempt to control his anxiety. "Okay, fine," he says hurriedly. "Anything else I should know before you send me off to my own death?" He clears his throat, an action that he passively tends to do when he's under pressure, and his hand balls up into a fist before the fingers unfurl again and stretch out, which is another coping mechanism he finds himself subconsciously using. Psychosomatic. A condition he's given himself. John's had a lot of those over the years. He's only just gotten over the limp.

There's a small silence then. The escort hesitates, reluctantly trying to decide whether or not to say what he's thinking. He leans in close to John's ear after a while, inhaling softly and finally saying one last thing.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

John scoffs, drawing back. "Who the hell is that?"

The escort shakes his head. "I've no clue," he explains, "but I've heard he's dangerous. A psychopath. No friends, no family, no nothing. And he's... clever."

Only one person to stay away from. That should be easy enough. John exhales as the man steps back into the chopper and nods in farewell.

Everything will be fine.

Everything, of course, meaning absolutely nothing at all. He realises he's just assuring himself that things are okay because he's petrified. He was an army doctor; he has seen almost every death imaginable. But he still can't bear to think about the possibility of his own.

"Oh, and by the way," the man says before the chopper takes off, "Be careful of the dust storms. You'll want to find shelter as soon as you possibly can, mate, so you'd best set off now."

John finds his fingers prodding at his folded jumper as he carries it along, walking down the empty street and turning a corner into another one with a bit more evidence of thriving life. A blouse, ripped at the sleeve but still in tact, is lazily strewn across the vacant windshield of a car. The car itself is parked by what appears to be a makeshift tent constructed of metal roofing shingles and rotting wooden planks. But it's silent. No crying children or people talking or animals scurrying about. It's like he's the last man alive.

He remembers these streets. He used to travel through them almost daily. Maybe if he walks far enough he can find the tourist attractions. He makes it a goal to find out if the Eye is still standing, unless, of course, he dies first. But he doesn't want to die, living being a basic human instinct, and so he tells himself - well, he promises, really - that he won't.

Seeing the streets and major roads completely empty, John ironically wishes there were traffic here. Then he'd feel safer and, perhaps, finally at home. He wishes for something to be the same. Anything at all.

Is Harry still alive?

Now he begins to think of his sister, and rightfully so. Since he only recently bought a mobile phone - one of the old ones that folds (the flat ones are too expensive since they've just been released) - he hasn't gotten the chance to put in her contact information, as if her phone would be working now in the first place. His only luck at finding her now would be by chance. But he doesn't believe in chance. Not after today.

Harriet Watson has, in fact, been circling in and out of his head in an irregular ellipse pattern since he began his flight here. She's faded ambiently through his ears and her name has rested on his tongue as he slept. Not because he misses her (he's gotten over missing things by now), but simply because the question keeps tugging at his sleeve like a disgruntled child. Is she alive? Do you think she's alive?

She probably isn't. From what he's heard, it's not often someone is. And, oddly enough, he finds a lot of peace in knowing that. He doesn't know why. Maybe it gives him a false sense of closure, of completion in having to keep in touch with people. People tend to love him more than he loves them back, and it's almost peaceful knowing he doesn't have to pretend it's completely mutual anymore.

Alright, now, stop it.

His mind is wandering. That happens too much these days. John mentally scolds himself and repeats the main goal.

Find shelter before a dust storm hits.

John's been caught up in dust storms before, and he knows it's not something he'd like to experience again. So he begins to try to open doors on the exterior walls of buildings that look like they haven't been kept up since he left for war. All of them are either locked or jammed, and he knows better than to just bust in. Some places could be dangerous. He doesn't want to die because of a collapsed roof less than ten minutes after his arrival.

So he decides to act quickly. Taking his extra change of clothes, he tries to find any safe-seeming place that's at least a bit sheltering. His plan is to make a tent-like thing with his shirt, and perhaps spend his time there. That is, if it's safe and sheltering and not already inhabited by someone else. He could use an empty rubbish bin for cover. If he curls up tightly enough, maybe he'll be able to sleep in it. Although fitting in it completely would be a miracle.

He turns corners and corners again and again, becoming more paranoid with each step that someone might jump out and snatch him. He sees no signs of life, no signs of shelter.

Maybe he's alone.

It's very possible that he is. There's no monitoring of London anymore. In fact, he's sure there's not even monitoring of the United Kingdom at all. Everyone gave up after the drought, and it makes perfect sense why they'd do such a thing. In other words, if the population here is zero, he wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't know yet.

But, turning another corner, John stumbles over a knapsack - one of those drawstring kinds they make for children out of cheap plastic and fake rope.

It's conveniently positioned, too, as if someone has planned out the exact positions that his feet would be in and placed it accordingly. He picks it up immediately, knowing that taking care of himself needs to be his first priority no matter what belongs to whom, and examines it.

It's blue. It's the ugliest kind of blue he's ever seen. Too bold and bright. Someone is bound to notice him if he wears it, so he decides not to. He opens it up in search for any goods that have been left behind.

And then he smiles. Not genuinely; the situation is far too dire for that. It's the kind of smile he wears when he pretends he's a villain in an old-fashioned crime film. One where something is finally going right for him and he's putting on a show for whoever happens to be watching. That's the kind of smile he wears. And he keeps it on, too, because he just got lucky.

The inside of the bag is a dusty brown. John eagerly flips it inside-out so the bright blue, extra-visible fabric is all concealed, and he notices a note fall out onto the ground when he does so. Stuffing his clothes into the bag and securing the strings around his shoulders, he kneels down and picks it up. The paper is clearly handmade, consisting of newspaper and tissues squashed together, and it feels rough at his fingertips. The handwriting on it is pretty but still careless, scrawled out in such a lazy manner that John wonders if he's dealing with a child. But he decides he's probably just dealing with someone that doesn't care about penmanship. Probably a man.

Deciphering the words as best he can, John reads this:

You're new. Join us for dinner. Avenue Gardens, Regent's Park, sundown. We have water and tarps. Punctuality counts.

Dinner, water and tarps. All things he needs. But, because it's best to be cynical in an environment such as this, John thinks at first that it's definitely a setup. Or perhaps he only thinks that because it's a conditioned habit. Regardless, he thinks it's too good to be true. He wants to know what's in the loophole. Because, for example, they never said they wouldn't kill him.

Inside is a map of London, except things are crossed out and written over with permanent marker, and there's a dot where John is supposed to meet them. It's a rather large map, covering many of the tourist attractions on the Thames and stretching from Westminster to Whitechapel, and it's folded many times over. He folds it back up, the creases turning to a sharp point at the vertex of each corner, and puts it back in the bag. John doesn't need a map. He knows where everything is.

What he does need is water, food and shelter, and he's willing to take the chance of getting them through the person - or people - that gave him the invitation. If he's to die because of them, it's better than dying of starvation.

The only problem is that John has no idea what time it actually is, so he doesn't know when the sun will set. The buildings are a bit high up for him to tell based on shadows or the position of the sun, and there's nobody around to ask. His sense of time is messed up due to the sudden change of time zones, and he doubts that any clock towers will still be working now, either. So he decides to play it safe and begins walking to Regent's Park immediately. It's safer this way. John has learnt it's best to be safe.

A faint echo of a barking dog softly brushes through his ears, chilling him just enough to make him paranoid. This is so surreal that he starts to question whether or not he's actually awake and not dreaming. He starts to wonder if he'll see a ghost or a zombie or something else that doesn't exist. But he doesn't. The boogeyman never arrives. He only just heard a dog. At least now he knows that animals still exist here.

Turning down a street and heading North to his destination, John suddenly hears the sound of movement. It's feet on gravel, he decides, and he stays perfectly still out of raw, trained instinct. Someone is around. Maybe they can tell him what's going on and how to not die.

And then he spots the person in question. They've been camouflaged well; enough for them to be twenty yards in front of him and still barely visible. But now they've seen him, too. They're frozen, and John begins to approach them.

But just before he's able to speak, the person runs. It's a girl, and she has what looks like leaves in her hand. That must mean she has access to a substantial amount of water, John realises as he absentmindedly races after her. You can't have plants without water.

"Oi!" he calls as she sprints away from him, tipping a stray bin over to slow him down. "Why are you running? Hey!"

But she's gone.

John's in a mood now. A terrible, unforgiving mood. Because here he is, looking for any signs of life, and the moment he finds it, it runs off. And it's holding a plant, which is another sign of life.

Bollocks.

But John has to stop getting sidetracked. He needs to get to Regent's Park so he can maybe eat and drink and make sure he's a sign of life as well for a while longer. So, running his hands down the drawstrings of the knapsack and forcing himself to leave his thoughts alone, John Hamish Watson turns North.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The sky begins to turn pink as John reaches the corner of New Cavendish and Harley Street. Trying to look around to find the horizon, his heart sinks as he realises once more that he still is unable to. Even with all the vacant, unkempt buildings that are crumbling to the dry ground, the skyline is still hidden by them.

He tries to calculate how long it takes for the sun to set. He's seen many sunsets in Afghanistan, and he can't imagine they're much different time-wise from London. He remembers with a jolt that they only took around twenty minutes before going completely black. Twenty minutes to get from New Cavendish and Harley all the way to Avenue Gardens. From what he remembers, that's about three fourths of a kilometre.

So John, already overwhelmed by the pain in his legs and shoulder and starting to feel the dehydration from the hot sun kicking in, almost hesitantly begins to run.

He sprints Eastward for a block - or maybe two. He isn't paying much attention. But he already feels pain in his chest as he turns left and begins to go North to his destination. If he had been in the actual military, being trained to battle and get through obstacles and run for miles on end, he'd be a lot better at this. But he only learnt how to keep people from dying on the spot. He doesn't know how to properly run.

The adrenaline helps. A new surge of it goes through him each time he remembers what could potentially be at stake. If they aren't lying to him, he could be given the opportunity to live a little more easily, and he can't so quickly pass that up.

He's so grateful he has good trainers on. They grip so easily at the ground, even on the loose gravel that's been kicked about. He surges forward, even though he's sure he's hyperventilating and needs to stop. I'm dying, his chest screams. His head replies, Don't. Which is stupid, even to him, because it really doesn't help much. He tries to control his breathing, but it's hard when he's in such a rush. It's pointless, really. He's halfway there.

It sounds like his heart is in the centre of his brain, the sound of it pumping amplified to the hundredth percent. His throat hurts, and he's convinced he tastes blood. The sky is getting darker, the pink turning into a soft purple, the clouds smudging and blending and warping together faster than he's running. John finds this unsettling for some reason.

He barely recognises these streets. This is something he thinks just to take his mind off of how much it hurts to run. He remembers driving down it with his family a few times when he was young. On the rare occasion where family life hadn't plummeted into the depths of Hell, they would take him and Harry somewhere nice, and Regent's Park was one of the common choices. But, looking at it now, John barely believes it's the same place. It's dry and dusty and barren. There's no green anywhere. Even from far away he can tell everything's been ruined by the catastrophe. They've taken things down, closed things off, but patched up nothing. It makes him irritated, in a way.

The sky is getting darker. The purple is turning to a deep, intimate blue, and he tries his best to push himself faster. He's so close. He can feel it. But it's incredibly uncomfortable.

He feels like he can't get enough air. He breathes quickly through his throat, his lungs sore at the fast cycle. He feels like they're going to pop, but he forces himself forward. This is important. This could be what his life depends on.

The horizon is almost completely dark now, but he's finally reached the end of the road. The park is just across from him, and he decides not to stop for breath until the gets to the spot he needs to. Looking at it now as he runs to it, the place looks nothing like a park anymore. The land is so dry and empty that he can see the buildings in the distance, the trees dead and without leaves, the bushes wilted. It's sad to him. Not that he ever had a particularly strong bond with this park; he's only ever come here once or twice in his life. But it's sad to see everything gone and ruined.

And it's also terrifying. Sad and terrifying and surreal above all else.

His feet begin to slow as he reaches Avenue Gardens. His throat feels raw, and he gasps as he tries to get enough air through it. He fiddles with the drawstring of the knapsack, tugging it down and then straightening it out again. It gives him something to try and focus on instead of what's at hand. He likes to focus on other things when he's uncomfortable. Discomfort is a weakness of his since he isn't good at facing it head-on.

He doesn't see anyone here. Although the path is rather long, and it is dark already. He slowly walks along it and looks for people near the dead plants, hoping he just couldn't see them due to camouflage or lack of movement.

But he freezes as he hears footsteps crunching behind him. He freezes a lot these days.

"Hello?" he calls softly behind his back, not daring to turn around. Because if they've planned to kill him after all, he'll see the weapons if he does, and then he'll know he's going to die instead of being oblivious.

Although it isn't like he's not expecting it. So he decides it doesn't matter anyway.

He's had no reply so far, and he races himself for any killing blow. His breath is quick and uneven, still messed up from all that running, and the footsteps get closer until they're right behind him. And then, finally, a voice answers him, but not in the way he has been hoping it would. It chills him, it's deep and flowing qualities making him shiver in terror as it remarks:

"My sincerest apologies in advance for having to do this to you."

There's a moment's silence, and John still doesn't move. His heart is doing all these weird palpitations, though, pattering and jumping around inside his chest as he accepts what's to come. He's been told not to trust anyone, but here he is, facing the consequence of not listening. Heeding warnings is not his strong suit, and it never has been. He just gets to learn his lesson now.

"Well, whatever you're doing, make it quick, then," John barks suddenly, not even wanting to know. He's somehow not even scared of what's to potentially come. Perhaps it's because anything will be better than this. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline.

"Oh, don't worry; I'm not going to kill you," the man behind him replies. He leaves a small moment of silence then before quickly adding, with an unnecessary comedic tone, "I'm just going to knock you out."

John becomes immediately agitated at that. "What the hell?" he exclaims, turning around now to face him, but then he's whacked on the side of the head with something hard, and he's out like a light.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

If sound could possibly be blurry, that's what John's hearing now. Everything is smudged together into a muddy kind of mumbling. Voices are blended together and distant. Opening his eyes, his vision is far from clear as well. He blinks aggressively to try and clear his eyes, but he then decides just to wait for it to happen on its own.

His ears are getting better now. He's starting to hear voices like they're closer to him, but they sound like they're travelling through water. It's echoing all over the place, bouncing off the walls of his own brain. But he's starting to decipher the words. He's finally beginning to function enough to understand them.

"Hooper's who you're looking for, I think," says the most familiar one. "She has a lot of resources. We've made deals, the two of us. And she's always been extra generous with mine. I'm sure I could set you up with her."

"Do you think she has water?"

"Do I think she has water? She grows lavender, you blithering idiot. Of course she has water."

A small chuckle, and then silence. The familiar voice speaks again, changing the subject from where he left off.

"There are four of us now - potentially five, depending on this one - and we each have some helpful connections. We could grow, you know. Recruit them. We're the ones with the maps and the clocks and the money, so it isn't like we have nothing to offer," he thinks aloud. "Gordon, if you talked to Hooper-"

"I'm not talking to Hooper," replies Gordon, "and my name is not Gordon."

"Maybe you'll, I don't know, get a bit more from her than having just another gang member? She has a thing for taller guys."

Not Gordon sighs. "I'm five foot ten. I'm average, mate."

It's quiet, and then there's a short intake of breath from the first speaker before they say, "Well, she's short, so-"

"Listen, I'm not going and talking to her just so you can start dealing water to people. Sod off and do it yourself." Not Gordon then checks out of the conversation, and John tries opening his eyes again. He had barely even noticed that he closed them.

"On the other hand," reasons a new voice as John blinks away the blurriness. "Hooper's a bit..."

"...Sentimental," finishes the first speaker. "Yes; I'm quite aware."

John can finally see. Even the voices are sounding normal now. He can't tell where he is, but it's dark, and everyone's huddled around a fire. The first person to speak earlier - the one that knocked him out - is skinny and tall, with thick, black swoops of hair delicately brushing against his forehead. Not Gordon, sitting a bit closer to John, has grey hair, cut short in a sloppy fashion, probably with a knife since razors or even scissors seem to be unlikely to find here. And the third one just looks like an asshole.

"How much do you think she'd really add to the dynamics of our alliance?" asks the third, sitting back arrogantly in a dusty portable camping chair and crossing one of his feet over the other. They're all wearing tank tops with the long sleeve holes exposing the abdomen. It's probably too hot to wear otherwise.

The first is quick to reply. "Connections."

"Connections and what, lavender?" the third chortles. The first glowers passive-aggressively at him and drops the subject.

Not Gordon, in a state of impatience, glances at John as he shifts in his seat, and then excitedly alerts the others. "Look who's up."

All eyes immediately shift to John.

He's uncomfortable with the sudden undivided attention. They're silent for a moment, and then the first one, the person who knocked him out God-knows-how-long ago, says the one sentence that John doesn't need to hear.

"How's the, um," he mumbles, as if he knows he's about to get himself in trouble. "How's the head?"

John grits his teeth and glares right back. His head is throbbing with pain; something he's only noticed after he was asked.

The man across from him - well, boy, really; man is an overstatement - looks amused as he continues to speak. "You seem like you got hit pretty hard, yeah?"

John doesn't respond. He just narrows his eyes even more as he frowns menacingly back. He's not playing this game. He was hit in the head for no reason. He's not going to pretend everything is fine. There will be no saying, "Oh, yeah, mate. You knocked me out. Haha! Hilarious. What a clever trick!" There will only be silence. John wants to make him crawl inside his own skin. He wants him to curl up into a ball and stare at the ground with discomfort. Him and his stupid curls.

The third man clears his throat to break up the tension and claim his spot to speak. The fire between all of them lights up his face so much that the bright orange colour almost drowns out his frown lines. He takes a long, full breath, one that makes his chin almost hit his chest, before explaining, "Since you're definitely wondering, we had to knock you out so you don't know where we are. If anyone finds out where we keep all our rations..." He trails off, staring out into the dark with an air of forced inquisitiveness.

John scoffs. "You could have done it a bit more nicely, though. Like with some sort of chemical or something. You didn't have to ram me in the head so hard with..." He pauses. "What was it you hit my head with?"

The boy replies quickly. "A lead pipe."

John's brows furrow. "Was that all you could find?"

Sitting back in his seat, the boy shrugs. "I figured you'd prefer that over a rock."

John clenches his jaw. Is it legal to physically assault someone when there's no government left? He doesn't know. He'd sure love to get his hands around that miserable bloke's throat, though. But he doesn't seem to get the message, because he adds even more to his sentence.

"I'm also skilled at boxing, so unless you wanted a solid blow to the jaw-"

"Fuck you," John interrupts. He doesn't know why those were the words that stumbled out of his mouth, but he doesn't exactly regret it. Everyone is looking at him now in a state of shock, which is a big surprise to him.

"What did you just say?" asks the third, raising his eyebrows in a sort of warning. John remembers then that his only way of getting food today is through them, and he tries the sentence again.

"What I said was..." he pretends to repeat, "to shut up. It hurts my head." He points to his ears with both hands and shrugs. "It's like a hangover, really. Ever had one?"

The boy shakes his head, not at all outwardly bothered by John's behaviour. "I have not."

John gives a fake laugh. "You ought to try it sometime," he recommends, flashing a forced smile. "Then have either of these two scream into your ears. It's incredibly enjoyable." He motions to Not Gordon and then the other one, who sighs and stands up, moving away from the fire.

"Perhaps we should stay out of this," he hints at Not Gordon, who follows him out of the light and to somewhere else near wherever they were. "Let me know what you decide about today's guest, brother mine. He's just a ray of sunshine. I'm sure he'd be lovely to have around."

The boy stays, sitting across from him and casually tossing things down into the fire. His fingers are long and slender, grabbing dead twigs off the ground and dropping them in one by one. John watches, neither interested nor amused by the current circumstances whatsoever.

His voice is dark and flowing as he eventually replies, "I've had heroin withdrawal, however. I can assure you that's at least ten times worse than being hungover for a day."

John, suddenly realising what he's done, opens his mouth and leaves it frozen there before finally croaking out, "Oh."

This is greeted by silence.

John continues. "I apologise-"

"I knew you were going to say that," exclaims the boy. "Don't say that. Don't feel pity for something that merely happened to me. It's over and done with." He sighs and whispers, "Goldfish..."

John doesn't even notice the word goldfish. Instead, he's become angrier. Because the boy in front of him is pretending that addiction is a minor thing. He's brushing it off like it doesn't affect everyone in an addict's family and neighbourhood and friend groups and communities. He's forgetting about the children of the people that spend their lives passed out in the kitchen all day. Addiction is a sort of weak spot for John. It might be one of his only ones. He's become somewhat numb after Afghanistan.

Perhaps, if his parents never came in contact with hardcore drugs, he wouldn't have joined the army in the first place.

He shifts in his seat, his hands angrily wringing the fabric of the lawn chair to control his malicious impulses. The boy seems to notice this, and he keeps his eyes glued on John's fuming fingers. After a few moments, he pauses and sits forward in his seat.

"So," he says, a bit more softly now as his eyes flicker back and forth between John and the fire between them. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John is taken aback at this. He instantaneously forgets his anger and bitter attitude, furrowing his brow and leaning forward. "I'm sorry... What?!"

"What I said was," the boy repeats, knowing unmistakably well that John's heard him perfectly. His voice is cool and nonchalant, which is a surprise when his sudden knowledge of random strangers is taken into consideration. He's treating this like it happens every day. Maybe it does. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John is hesitant, mostly due to his being dumbfounded by the question. "...Afghanistan," he replies slowly. "Sorry, how did you-"

"We've been looking for new recruits recently - people that can provide us with strength and resources," the boy interrupts, jumping up from his chair and pacing in front of the fire. He's even skinnier standing up. He's wearing tight blue jeans, and even they wrinkle and sag around his legs. John wonders if needs are so dire that he'll end up like that too. "Whenever we spot someone we haven't seen before - and we spot people a lot; we've got eyes everywhere, my brother and I - we invite them for dinner. From there we decide who to put back on the streets, and who to keep. It's like sifting through sand and weeding out all the stupid rocks with the points and rough edges. Hopefully you're not one of those, although it seems like you're a bit cranky to be a smooth grain of sand-"

"That doesn't answer my-"

But he's interrupted again. "But the thing is that you've got experience," the boy thinks aloud. "You know how to help people, how to hurt them, how to hide from them. You also have a phone, if my deductions are correct. A few telephone lines and internet connections are still going, since nobody's cared to turn them off. So you're the only person we've come across with such a large attribute. Nobody has any charging equipment anymore, so all the devices are gone..." His eyes travel down to John's front pocket. "...except for yours."

"If I may speak," John repeats, even louder this time, "How in hell did you know about Afghanistan?"

The boy doesn't answer. Instead, he paces faster, his bare, calloused feet hitting the ground with padded thumps each time he steps. He breathes in, bringing his hands together in a prayer-like position and touching the outstretched fingers to the bottom of his chin. He slows to a stop, closing his eyes and exhaling, his body in an unintentionally intimidating stance. John still gapes at him, too astonished by his abilities to even care that he's being ignored.

"There's a small camp I live in. It's quite near here, actually. One of the only buildings around that's still safe to be in," says the boy. "I don't run it, but I help with the renovating work when it's in need. That's how I earn my keep, I suppose. The landlady's far too old and frail to be doing all that herself."

John flips his hands so that his palms are facing outward. This is his signature gesture that, translated as directly as possible, means nothing other than a simple "What the hell?"

"So?" he asks, waiting for the boy to continue, not exactly missing the point but not really catching on, either.

"You interested? It's not much, but it's better than what you'd have on your own. There's an extra bedroom, if you're that type of person. And it'd be a good fit unless you don't like the violin-"

John knows what he means now. He springs up from his chair in a frantic and erratic fashion, as if he'd lose his chance if he were to stay calm. "Yes," he breathes. "I mean, um, if you don't mind."

The boy merely shrugs. "I don't mind," he replies, beginning to pace again. "Mrs. Hudson gets lonely, even with all her correspondence with my... gang. She'd love another person to keep her company-"

John coughs. "Did you say gang?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Well," John says, furrowing his brow and clearing his throat. "I, um. I don't know. It's just weird." He tries to collect his thoughts, and then takes another worthless shot at speaking again. "I was told people out here worked on their own."

"Well, yes," the boy explains, "but most people aren't completely isolated. Those who are go insane due to a lack of human contact. And everyone here has problems with trust, so many decide to work on their own just so they don't adopt a person into their inner circle just to have them turn on them and end up stabbing them in the back. They think it's safer to be alone. And, in a sense, they're right. But being in a group is far more protecting of your safety than that."

"You must be nit-picky with your choice of people," John says, thinking about how the only people that had been with them that day had been Not Gordon and the pompous one. "Does everyone have a special attribute or something? And why have you chosen me so quickly?"

"Everyone I'm with has attributes," John's kidnapper replies nonchalantly. "Except for my brother. He's smart, but he's a pain in the arse and is only really around because he has an irritating need to take care of me all the time."

"Oh, the stuck-up one?" John guesses, and the boy nods.

"But you're a military man. You've got nerves of steel. You've got trained reflexes, tricks and secrets to help us manoeuvre out of situations. And you've got a phone," he adds. "So it would be highly beneficial for us if you decided to tag along."

John is quiet for a few moments. He's hungry now. But he has bigger things on his mind. "Look," he says, "I'm not entirely sure I can trust you just yet."

The boy furrows his brow and stares him down. "Why's that?"

"Well, you know my whole background, for starters," John lists with a dry chuckle. "You know just about everything there is to know about me and I've no idea how. You offered me food and shelter but knocked me out with a piece of scrap metal and dragged me here instead. You're asking me to live with you, which I'd gladly accept as long as you're not trying to trick me. Hell, I don't even know where this place in question is. I don't even know your name." He sighs in expectation, and the boy is hesitant. John puts his hands in his pockets and rolls his eyes. "Come on, now. As long as your name isn't... Shoreline Hail, or whatever it was, it's fine."

The boy coughs, and John realises how cold it's become outside. Perhaps England has turned into a desert - hot at day and cold at night - since the climate changed so rapidly. He shivers, bringing his chair closer to the fire and sitting back down in it.

The boy pulls two blankets out from one of the bags on the ground, handing one to John and keeping the other to himself. "The address is - well, it used to be - 221B Baker Street," he finally replies. "And you can call me... Scott. Billy Scott." He seems to cringe as the words leave his mouth, but perhaps it's from the cold. He wraps his blanket around his body and sits down next to John, who introduces himself in return.

"John Watson," he says, and Billy nods.

"So, Watson," he offers, reaching a hand out to shake. "Are you interested in joining us?"

John takes his hand firmly in his own and shakes it, feeling thirst and hunger bubbling up inside him. "I'm interested."

Billy nods. "And thank heavens for that," he exclaims sarcastically, opening a can of preserved salmon and handing it to John with a plastic fork. "All this extra canned shit isn't going to eat itself."

John takes a ravenous bite, sighing in satisfaction as his hunger makes it taste like the best meal he's ever had. Billy watches emotionlessly, resting his cheek on his fist as he huddles underneath the blanket. "You'd better enjoy it now," he says, "because soon enough it'll taste like utter rubbish."

"But at least we've got food," John half-argues, and Billy looks away.

"Yes," he quietly agrees. "At least we've got food."


	3. Expired Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson's new acquaintance teaches him the ways of modern life.

"This is our food," Billy explains flatly, motioning with his hand to a small cupboard in the place he calls the camp. John thinks it still counts as a flat. But he hasn't been around since everything changed. "We restock every week, which is somewhat dangerous, but I've learnt tricks to help me live long enough to return with it. It's easy to get mugged for food. You have to be good at avoiding it. And that's why everyone sends me to do it instead of doing it themselves."

John furrows his brow. "You do it every time?"

Billy shrugs, lighting a match against the side of its box and bringing it to the wick of a tall, thin candle. "We've lost people before, actually, so we decided to only have the skilled ones go out. I'll take you with me next week to show you the ropes and assess if you could do it, too."

John nods, and then he remembers something.

"When I was making my way to Regent's Park," he says, remembering his odd trek there, "there was a woman with leaves in her hand. I tried to approach her, but she ran away-"

"That's Hooper," Billy interrupts. "Don't take this the wrong way, but she's kind of a plant dealer. She runs because she knows there's a high chance that someone on the street would want to kill her for her goods. If she doesn't recognise you, she bolts."

"Oh," John replies slowly. "So she's the one you were talking about around the fire? Hooper?"

"Well, her first name is Molly, actually," Billy corrects. "We usually call people by their last names these days, unless more than one person in the room share the same surname or you are in an intimate relationship with them. But, yes, she was who we were talking about."

"Oh," John says. "So I should call you Scott?"

Billy is hesitant to respond, not trying to hide his flinching as he clears his throat.

"No," he says. "Please, no."

John blinks.

Silence.

"So I should call you Billy-"

"Nope."

John throws his hands up in the air. "What, then?!"

Billy thinks for a long time. It's actually not that long; it just feels like it because they're awkwardly standing in an empty room and there's nothing for John to preoccupy himself with as he waits for a reply. He shuffles his feet, sticking his hands in his pockets and literally deciding to resort to counting the floorboards for entertainment.

The man in front of him, whose name is now not Billy or Scott, takes a sharp inhale of breath as he replies. "We could use, um, code names."

John scoffs. "Why?"

"Um."

Even more silence. John has counted 56 separate floorboards already. He considers counting the nails.

"Because they're safer, more inconspicuous and a hell of a lot better than Billy?" comes the response.

John nods. That's fair. "So what should I call you, then?"

And his new flatmate is stunned, yet again, by this fairly easy question. John laughs sarcastically and shakes his head.

"Dear God!" he calls. "Take your time! I'll hear from you next year, I suppose! That's fine; I'm patient! Annual conversation is the best kind, goddamn!"

Billy's eyes widen, his thinking interrupted. His eyebrows are raised in a manner suggesting John has just said something crude in front of his own grandmother. "Don't let the government catch you using that word," he warns. "The police come around every so often in raids, and if they find anything disrespectful of the government, they enforce some rather dramatic consequences. Anything they find offensive, they'll destroy. Doesn't matter if you're graffiti on a brick wall or a living, breathing human being. They're practically obsessed with overkill at this point."

"Wait," John asks. "So you can't swear at all?"

"We apparently still represent our nation for some reason, regardless of how starving or dead we are, so we're supposed to be polite even though we're constantly murdering each other. You know, to represent. This means no swearing or complaining. Words like shit, fuck, cunt are all prohibited," Billy explains. The words sound foreign coming out of his mouth. He probably hasn't used them in a while. "Even the minor words like hell will get you hanged and beat with a sharpened stick until you die."

"Jesus."

"Don't say that, either," he advises. "Unless you're with someone you know you can trust. Anyone can be undercover for police and you won't even know it."

John stares off to the side in shallow thought. "So what are you s'posed to say, then?"

"We've invented substitutes," Billy replies. "You'll learn them over time."

"Okay," John says, ready to change the subject so he doesn't get too depressed by his environment so soon. "Speaking of substitutes, I still don't know what to call you as a substitute for Billy yet. So unless you want me to formally address you as William, get a move on with your answer." He doesn't mention the next part, but he's ready to jump straight into calling him Billiam if he doesn't cooperate.

And Billy's quiet again.

John turns and walks into another room in attempt to occupy his mind with anything interesting at all. The flat is mostly barren, except for a few chairs, a fireplace and a violin. There aren't even beds here. Only one small mattress exists in each bedroom, with those old-fashioned candles-on-a-little-saucer-that-you-see-in-old-movies sitting next to it (he doesn't actually know what they're called). But that's fine, John tells himself. At least he isn't living with a hoarder.

You haven't even explored the closet yet, though, he reminds himself, and decides not to get his hopes up. One never knows how many things are carelessly crammed into a closet until they have the courage to go open it. And he doesn't, so he goes back to the main room, sitting down in the larger, more comfortable of the two chairs and taking his drawstring knapsack, putting it gently on the floor.

What even are those candle things called? he wonders, but then realises it's likely they're just called candles and moves on.

The windows are mostly boarded shut, but the boards are far apart enough where you can still see out and light can still come in. John figures they must just be there so that the government thinks the flat is empty and doesn't raid it. Which all makes sense to him. Perhaps that's why Billy doesn't own many things, either: so that, if anyone happens to come in, they'll think it's abandoned and leave it be. Unless they decide to settle in or take something. Not like there's much to take.

There's the sound of footsteps slowly making their way up the stairs. They're footsteps John hasn't heard before, actually. But he doesn't like them. He hates the sound of footsteps. There are too many memories attached to them. Heavy army boots, running through dying comrades-in-arms to reach who you're supposed to. People marching around camp. Dragging bodies to the side of the grounds to bury.

A new person approaching you from behind.

"Who's this?" asks the voice belonging to the deafening noise. John jumps, startled, as he snaps out of his thoughts.

"Ah!" he yells as he does, then regaining his composure and turning to the person. "Jesus Ch- I mean, um... You scared me."

She laughs. She's an older woman with short-cut, messy-ish hair quite portraying sun flares around her head. She points to John, turning back to Billy.

"Hey, Sherlock!" she calls, throwing John off-guard. "I've not met this one yet! How long?"

"Goddammit, Hudson," Billy scolds through bare teeth from the other room. "You just ruined..." He sighs. "Well, there goes that."

John furrows his brow. "Who's Sherlock? You mean Sherlock Hames - or whatever it is - right? Does he live here? Because if he does, I should probably-"

"No. It's an old joke," Billy growls in Hudson's direction. "Think nothing of it."

A pause. It passes so quickly that it's almost hard to notice. But it's significant enough where you can't help but to recognise it. It's awkward. Not the long kind of awkward. The kind of awkward where the timing just isn't quite right and it sort of throws everything off. John would say it disrupts the rhythm, but he doesn't know jack shit about music.

"I'm John Watson," John says, offering a handshake. "Just got back from Afghanistan, actually."

"Martha Hudson," the lady replies. "I'm your landlady; not your housekeeper. Don't get the terms mixed up."

John nods. "So... Hudson, or Mrs. Hudson, or...?"

She flicks her hand in dismissal. "Oh, it doesn't matter. It's all trivial to me, this social expectation stuff. I've been around longer than the term itself. Besides, I'm never out of the house anyway. It's not like it matters. They can't hear us."

John nods slowly. "Um, okay. Is there a name you prefer?"

"No. Nothing really matters much to me. I've learnt to be carefree," she replies. "I mean, it isn't like we've got much of a choice. Either be happy, be sad or be dead. I might as well be happy with whatever I've got."

"Except for your ex-husband," Billy interjects, stopping his thinking to butt in.

"Except for my ex-husband," Hudson repeats, quickly agreeing with the statement. She puts a first finger up in the air and points in a random direction as if to check the exception off of a list. "He was an idiot. Can't believe I even decided to settle down with such a disaster."

"Got this flat as a discount after helping solve his problems," Billy recalls, and John nods.

"So you're a therapist?" That'd be handy. John could use one of those.

"No," Billy replies. "I'm a consulting detective."

Well, there goes that idea.

Wait. What?

John does a double-take on what he just heard. "What on the face of this doomed and ever-crumbling planet is a consulting detective?"

"It's a job," Billy deadpans. "It only really fits a very specific category of people, this specific category only covering me. Because I'm the only one on the face of this planet. I made it up, the job."

"He got my husband to stumble across a police raid past curfew, and they took care of that! I couldn't help but repay him," Hudson reminisces, changing the subject back to the aforementioned one. "Of course there's no pay now, because money is useless. It's more of a companionship thing these days."

"You wouldn't have food without me, either," Billy mutters.

"I'd be dead, homeless, starving. I'd be a lost old lady without him and his gang!"

"You said it. Not me," Billy replies, a bit absent-minded. Hudson turns back to John.

"So you're staying here then?"

John nods. "Yeah. I mean, if you don't mind-"

"I'll get an extra sleeping bag ready. Don't you worry about a thing," she says. "And which bedroom will you be using?"

John tips his head in thought, not really knowing the layout of the flat yet. "I mean, does it really matter?"

"What she isn't telling you is that one of them is occupied by me," Billy calls to them.

"I mean, there is another room upstairs. That is, if you'll be needing two." Hudson offers with a meaningful glance, and John sort of scoffs.

"Yeah," he says. "Of course we'll be needing two."

Everyone's silent for a few more of those oddly-timed moments. John gets no clarification from Billy at all, so he stands in a very confused state, wondering what that might suggest. Hudson nods eventually and changes the subject, which is something she seems quite skilled at so far.

"So how long have you known him?" she asks, pointing at Billy. John shrugs.

"I met him just at sunset tonight," he says, "so just a few hours."

Hudson's jaw drops in delighted surprise, turning back to Billy.

"This is the first time you've taken one home on the same day, let alone the same week!" she gushes. "This one must be special then!"

"Well, yes; he's got a phone," Billy says. "I was actually planning on showing him around, if you don't mind." He casts Hudson a glance, and she seems to read it as some sort of code word or something of the like, because she gives a small gasp and a big nod, making her way to the stairs.

"Have fun, then," she says before leaving. "I'll be downstairs, as usual."

Her footsteps descend, and John has to force himself to focus on the individual lines in his own hands so he doesn't get flashbacks again. By the time her footsteps are gone, however, Billy's have begun again, and he's eventually stopped right in front of John, his eyes intense and sly and somewhat brooding.

"She's in," he says, as if John is supposed to know what that means.

"In what?"

Billy rolls his eyes. "She's with us. Part of our group. She provides the shelter and knows how to cook. We just give her the food and water."

John notices how thirsty he is when he hears that. Canned salmon is quite salty, and it dehydrates him easily. He wonders how they get fresh water, since the rivers are unsafe and there's no rain. He's sure he'll be informed later about this. He decides not to ask for water, though. It's probably too scarce to be handing out all the time, and he doesn't want to decrease their rations so soon after agreeing to be on their side.

"She also knows how to use a gun," Billy adds, "but don't tell the cops that. They'll rip you apart."

John can't tell whether or not that last part was meant to be sarcastic, but he gets the point. Tell the authorities and he dies. Or maybe Hudson dies. Or perhaps both.

"Oh, and Watson," Billy adds as almost an afterthought. "You can call me Shark."

John furrows his brow. "Shark?"

Billy shrugs, his curls flopping around as he does so. "Because I'm living in a world of goldfish."

John narrows his eyes, trying to figure that one out.

"Hopefully you're not hinting at you wanting to eat everyone and secretly being a cannibal," he says, only mostly joking, "because I think I'll be on my way if that's the case."

Shark rolls his eyes. "This isn't Silence of the Lambs, Watson," he replies with a sharp kick of sarcastic euphemism. "It's only the end of the world."

But John hates euphemism. Dysphemism is more aligned with his style, him being a pessimist and all. Maybe it's because of the war. Maybe it isn't. He doesn't really feel the need to know the reason. So he quickly fires back with a sentence he'd much rather absorb.

"Easy for you to say, considering you'll end before it."

Shark likes that response. In fact, he finds in wildly intriguing, like this man standing before him is new. Interesting. Not one of those stupid, blank slates. He's surprised him. And Shark isn't one to be surprised.

Interesting.

"Why do you say that?" comes the response after a few stunned seconds. "Do you like the idea of dying in five billion years by being burned to death by an exploding, dying ball of fire and plasma boiling at a temperature of millions and millions of excruciating degrees?"

"It'd be quick," John shrugs. "At least I wouldn't die a slow, painful death by inhaling polluted air or starving until I collapse." He pauses. "And it'd also get cremation out of the way..."

"You forgot the part that most people here die from being killed by either the police or starving people converting to cannibalism as a last resort to keep themselves alive," Shark debates quickly. "So, with that method, you'd die even more quickly if you're lucky enough to catch one with a chainsaw or a gun."

John pauses. "Do the police constantly have guns now, then?"

"Oh, John," Shark sighs. "You have a lot to be updated on."

"Like what?" John asks. He guesses that means the police do have guns handy at all times and he just was never informed. "What else?"

"Um... Hot dogs are literally made of lips and assholes."

John rolls his eyes. "Wow, no shit?"

"No, I don't think they'd risk putting that in there." Shark laughs, picking up the drawstring knapsack from the floor and handing it back to him. "Put this on. You'll be needing it."

"What?" John asks. "Where are we going? How late is it? It's dark!"

"Relax, you unintelligent fungus," his new flatmate replies with an air of sarcastic playfulness about him. "We're only going downstairs. If anyone from the police sees us after dark, we'll be literally torn to shreds and dumped down in the Thames anyway."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Shark rolls out a map on Hudson's old kitchen table. It's almost identical to the one in John's knapsack, except it's got borders drawn in red marker and pinholes with tiny labels next to them. He blows the dust off of the surface, holding a candle up to the paper so they can both see. Taking his pointer finger, he stabs it onto the paper by Big Ben, referring to the bridge it sits on the end of.

"So: a brief overview," he says. "Don't use this bridge. It hasn't been repaired or fixed up in the longest amount of time in comparison to the others. The police also drop a lot of bodies here, so the smell of all the runoff is bound to make you sick if you aren't used to it yet."

John bites back a groan. He knows all too well the smell of death, but he still isn't able to walk past a rotten cadaver without hurling all over his own feet. It's a wretched stench, and he takes the advice seriously.

"In fact, don't even go near Big Ben at all. The police patrol it the most so that nobody tries to turn it back on," Shark advises. "It's a common occurrence. Now that there's a set curfew with a likely death penalty attached, everyone wants to be able to know the time so they can manage it accordingly. But the police don't want harmony. They want power. That's why Geoff left."

John blinks. "Geoff?"

Shark pauses. "All I know is that it isn't Gandalf."

John rolls his eyes, suddenly knowing exactly who he's referring to. "Proceed."

"We don't know where the main police headquarters are, but we suspect Buckingham Palace. They've moved all the higher-ups in the government to the colonies because they've got rain and food and an actual government there still. So, since it's a protected, empty and comfortable place, that's likely where cops have flocked."

John nods, and Shark turns and takes out an almost identical map, but this one coloured with highlighter and marker signifying what looks like a series of scattered territories. He guesses.

"Gangs?"

Shark nods. "Gangs."

He points to a large red box. "This one is the biggest one around. They're all insane, that group. Watching them behave is seriously like watching a live-action Lord of the Flies. Don't even bother trying to get on their side. It won't work. They'll just try to eat you."

John cringes slightly as he realises that the previous statement wasn't a joke.

"They're cannibals?"

Shark snorts. "What the hell else are they supposed to eat? Dry soil? They don't have the access to preserved goods that we do."

John knots his eyebrows together. "So you don't think what they're doing is wrong?"

He's replied to with a dismissive shrug. "I don't think they've got any other choices."

John crosses his arms together with a huff of disagreeing air. "I'd rather die of starvation than eat someone of my own kind."

Shark's eyes are foreboding as he sets them on him, as if he knows something John doesn't. Maybe he does. "You'd be surprised, John," he mutters in a sense that sounds somewhat like a warning, "at what simple human instinct will block out to keep the body alive."

They're stuck there, a chilling silence between them even though the air is hot and dry. Their eyes are still locked together, as if they're both trying to intimidate the other into looking away. Shark is too adamant for John to handle, so he's the first to glance back down at the map. Shark is silently victorious, but he makes no movement to suggest it. Instead, he turns back to the map and moves on, pretending nothing of the power-seeking sort has just happened at all.

"The trains," he says. "They're no longer running, but the highlighted passageways and tunnels here are still in tact. All the trading goes on here. Police are too scared to patrol it because they're terrified of a cave-in. There are only about two hundred cops around this country, so none can be lost. The dystopian culture can't afford it." He chortles to himself. "But, then again, when can anyone afford anything around here?"

John points to one of the highlighted tracks. "So is this where you get your food?"

"That's where I got it at first," Shark says. "But then people began asking for too much, and people weren't willing to trade. Turned into a bloodbath once that started. It's mostly a big drug den now. I'm sure the drugs themselves even cost more than your life."

John throws out his hands, delivering his question to the point this time in hopes it'll be answered to the point.

"So where do you get our food?!" he whisper-yells. Shark turns back, giving him a snide look again. His fingers slowly grab a thumbtack from next to the map, and John swallows nervously as he notices. But Shark does nothing with the pin. It just lingers between his fingers, perhaps as an intimidation attempt, or perhaps a simple miscommunication.

"After the prices skyrocketed," he continues, his tone suggesting an "if you'd let me finish" as he half-glares, half smirks back at him, "I became highly skilled at pick-pocketing. Of course, it's completely immoral, and I always knew in the back of my mind that I could be taking food that was meant for an infant, but I did what I could to not starve to death. To this day, I still steal food. But change might be coming. Something new is here; something that happened just this morning." He pauses with a short, excited intake of breath, his eyes glinting and his lips smirking at the edges. "Something fun."

John sighs. "I don't know why you're delivering this as if it's some melodramatic novel, but please just tell me already."

Shark smirks. "Tell you... what, exactly?" He's having fun. John can see it by the way the flickering candle flame reflects in the iris of his eyes. It makes him both pissed and intrigued as to what sort of person he's dealing with.

John raises his eyebrows. "You know what I mean. I know you know what I mean."

Shark's eyebrows raise in return. "Oh, I can assure you, John, that I really don't." He rests his chin on his hand in a way John can only describe as mocking a female swimsuit model; the kind that laughs at salads and tips the rim of her enormous sun-hat on the cover of magazines they used to sell at supermarkets. He does it well. All he needs now is a bikini. "Enlighten me."

"I'm calling bullshit on that," John whispers just loud enough for Shark to hear. He leans in as his voice becomes hushed, more formidable, more dangerously intriguing. Shark only watches, his eyes guiding themselves between John's relentless gaze and the words falling from his lips. They, though almost completely silent, are powerful, and they direct themselves right to his cheek and slap it. He would have winced if he had been reasonable. But he didn't. And he doesn't now. He's too interested. Shark, in almost every aspect whatsoever, is a moth drawn to lightning.

John watches his eyes flicker over his face. He watches his eyebrows twitch the slightest bit and his mouth move in confused intrigue. He hates that he can't tell what sort of effect he's having on Shark, but he wants to get his intention across anyway.

"We don't have all night," John warns. "Get to the point."

Shark looks at the pin in his fingers, pursing his lips as he turns back to the map and places it meticulously on a very exact spot in Central London.

"This," he says, "right here, is where we can sustain our own lives for years." He leaves the sentence to hang in the atmosphere for a few moments, almost wondering if he should tell anyone what he knows at all. For a quick moment, he wonders if John is undercover from the police to call him out. But then he remembers the phone in John's front pocket, his one change of clothes, and his lack of even his own drawstring knapsack when he arrived, and Shark then decides that John Watson is absolutely harmless. Besides, he has a lighthearted demeanour about him. And Shark is drawn to it. It's different and new and he wants to know how it works.

John's interested now. Took him long enough. "What do you mean?" he asks. "What's the big deal with that one street?"

"Oh, no, it's not the street," Shark breathes excitedly, taking the pin out of the paper and moving his face down closely to the hole it left behind. "It's the building."

John scoffs, shifting his weight to his other leg. "What can one tiny room do to help us live for a few more years?" he asks. "What's in it?"

Shark shrugs. "I actually don't know," he admits. "But the woman that left it behind was rich. And," he adds, catching his new flatmate's attention even more, "I worked out the code to the padlock."

John feels something well up inside his chest. Is it excitement? Hope? Adventure? He isn't quite sure, but he knows it's giving him a strong surge of adrenaline.

He exhales, the sound soft and expectant. "And?"

Shark smirks darkly. It's a good sort of dark. It's one where, watching it develop, you know you're safe but still getting yourself into a relatively high level of trouble. It's the fun kind of trouble, though; the one full of adrenaline and laughter and an erratic heartbeat. The kind you've got when you're running down a darkened street with a bag of stolen goods in one hand and a candle in the other. John's only halfway prepared to admit that this sort of trouble is his personal favourite.

"And," Shark continues, rolling up the maps and putting them into one of Hudson's kitchen cupboards. He drops them behind a tall stack of cookbooks that look like they've never been touched at all, proving that the cupboard serves as more of a hiding spot for illegal things than an actual storage cabinet. Well, John reasons that it doubles up as both. "We're going there first thing tomorrow morning."

"First thing?!" John says, before adding the afterthought, "We?!"

"Don't worry," Shark says. "I'll wake you up. It's around 23:30 now, I'd think, and we'll have to beat the sun, so I'll probably wake you around five."

John doesn't know what to think. "Well, that's rather abrupt," he grumbles. "Not to mention I'll be running on just five and a half hours of sleep."

"But people don't just lock up buildings that have nothing in them," Shark counters. "So you'll probably be running on food once we get in. Is that enough of a motive for you?"

John, now that he's reminded, notices how empty he feels. He'd love to get ahold of some good food as soon as he can get it. Shark notices his expression. "I thought so."

They both begin to make their way upstairs, Shark pushing in his chair before leaving the room. For a while, he just stands at the bottom of the stairs, holding the candle in his hands still and looking up at the shadows moving with the flame. For a brief moment, he's mesmerised by it. But then sense gets the better of him and he remembers that he shouldn't be letting such trivial things occupy his headspace. John, as usual, notices.

"Well," Shark says quietly as they both ascend the stairwell and reach the second floor. "Rest up, then."

For a brief moment, John feels like he should thank him, except he doesn't know why he should or what he would end up thanking him for. Hitting him on the head with a lead pipe? Being a complete pain up until the end of the night when drowsiness finally took the stick out of his ass?

Coming up with nothing to say that would make any sense, John just nods and turns to head up the stairs.

"Oh, and John," Shark adds for the last time that night. John turns around in response.

"Yes?" he asks.

Shark takes a prolonged inhale of breath before saying, "If you're hungry, we do have little milk boxes - you know, the school lunch kinds that come with a straw - up in your bedroom. I'm sure they're at least three months past their expiration date, though. I'd think they're still safe, and they'll hold you over. But, I must warn you: being expired, they might taste somewhat like... cardboard."

John nods. "Thanks."

Shark steps toward him, handing the candle over. "You'll be needing this, too."

John takes the saucer part in his right hand, smiling at his new flatmate and walking slowly up the second flight of stairs. Shark doesn't know exactly why, but he watches him go, his eyes fixed on his shadow from the small flame even after he's turned the corner on the stairway.

And the moth, feeling his wings begin to singe at their beautiful, perfectly-sculpted edges, moves closer to the lightning regardless.


	4. Padlocked Goods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Shark get into some dead lady's food stash, and Shark teaches John about swearing. Later, someone comes to them for help.

A hand tightens around a warped wooden handle. It's heavy, but the hand is used to it. At the end is a pointed, chipped axe blade. It's made of iron, or, at least, that's what the lady that dealt it claimed. These days it's hard to even tell the colour of the metal at all because of all the dried, crusted blood splattered on the surface.

"Squalor ahead."

The voice is coming from someone else. Another human body walks up behind the first, this one holding tightly to a long knife.

"The helpless ones," the first replies. "My personal favourite."

They both laugh darkly now. They think they're bloody hilarious. This is what their humour has morphed into over the years. Killing poor people to keep yourself alive is a joke they repeat often. "Joke" meaning something they laugh at and not necessarily meaning something they don't do. In fact, they do it all the time. But, according to them, they pick on the saddest, worst-off people first. It's more humane that way. Although that's frankly only what they tell people. In all honesty, they only take the poorer ones if they're hungry enough. The rich are the ones with the resources and supplies and money. It's a good day if they even see one of those.

"How starving are you?" the first asks, and the other shrugs.

"I wouldn't mind looking for a posh one," the other replies. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find another one all dressed up."

They laugh again. They're good at this comedy thing, apparently. Someone should tell them to try performing stand-up.

"But once we bring it back," counters the first, "we'll have used up more time and energy anyway."

They sigh, one scratching their head, the other tightening their grip on their weapon.

"Alright, then," agrees the second. "Fine. Well go for that one."

And, slowly, they begin to creep. They're good at that. All this experience has them soundless. Their feet inch toward a girl appearing to be from an East-Asian country. She has a teapot in her lap. They eye it. Maybe they can trade that one underground.

And, once they're both close enough, the first one finally takes an opening swing. It's showtime for them. Murder is their stage. The girl is merely a prop. The goal, you might have guessed, is eating, and getting their grimy, overworked hands on that precious little teapot in hopes it doesn't break under their insensitive fingers.

The blade swings.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Rise and shine, Watson," comes a voice through the darkness of the uppermost bedroom. "The 'mocers aren't gonna kill themselves."

An important note:  
'Mocer (n.)  
1 . Vulgar slang: a person who commits homicide.  
Origin: 21st-century England, corresponding with Apocalypse I

John groans, rolling over and trying to fall asleep again. "Go away."

Shark almost pouts like a child, although it isn't visible. The windows are boarded up, and the sun still hasn't risen on top of that. "No."

John is silent, fading in and out of sleep. Since Shark disrupted him, he's stuck at that terrible in-between point where he's too tired to move, but not tired enough to fall back into it. He feels asleep, but he can still hear what's going on. And he can also respond appropriately.

"Yes."

Shark sits on the floor by John's sleeping bag. He crosses his legs in childish defiance.

"No."

"Bugger off."

"Oh, grow up," Shark sighs, poking him in the shoulder immaturely with a stick of some sort. It doesn't take John too long before realising that it's a straw. A straw from the milk he couldn't pass up the night before. "Remember where I'm taking you."

"Stop poking me with that straw."

"Get up so we can walk the streets without getting murdered and eaten."

John has to admit that's a hard point to argue with. But he's tired. And he thinks that's more valid than any other point existing at that moment.

"I'm tired."

Shark shrugs. "Get used to it."

There's a span of quietness. Shark considers alternatives then, consisting of:

| 1. Going on his own  
| 2. Dragging John out of bed  
| 3. Dumping sand on him

If this continues, maybe he'll do all three, he decides.

But John gets up, to his slight dismay, glaring at him in attempt to make him leave. Knowingly, Shark sits there, not moving at all. John sighs and walks to the window, trying his best to peek through the boards covering it.

"How's the weather?" he asks.

Shark scoffs. "Dry."

"Mm." John mumbles with a click of his tongue. "I meant the temperature. Because apparently it's always dry here." Imagine that. Always dry in England.

"It's like a desert," comes the eventual reply. "Cold when it's dark, hot when it isn't. A coat would only help you for thirty minutes, and then you'd have to carry it all day. Not like I expect you have a coat to begin with..."

John crosses his arms, leaning up against the wall and reconsidering his choice of living with this... this thing if he can't even sleep without being repeatedly poked in the back with a piece of loose, pointed plastic. "So I'll be freezing my arse off for the next half hour."

"If you say that on the street, John, they'll snap your neck," Shark sighs. "Don't even say you're cold. Say you need a jacket. But no, it isn't cold enough to freeze. It's technically still safe to be outside around this time of day without any winter gear."

"But for how long?"

Shark doesn't answer. John nods.

"So I'll need a jacket," he says.

"Only if you're a wuss."

John scoffs. "I'm not a wuss," he rejects. "I'm an army doctor!"

Shark has the sudden urge to ask if there's a difference, but he keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he simply hands him a clean bunch of clothes, not belonging to him but appearing to be made by hand, and leaves the room.

"Not anymore!" he replies, and he lets the door swing shut behind him. "We're leaving in five minutes."

John can't help but yell back. "Don't let the door hit your ego on the way out!"

But, by this point, Shark is already halfway down the stairs, heading to the front door and waiting for his new partner-in-crime to follow.

John sighs in a defeated manner, looking at the clothes in his arms. They're all brown or tan, probably to match the dusty surroundings in case they'll need to hide anytime. The shirt is made of what feels like really thin cotton-consisting fabric, and John wonders how they even wash things like these. He even wants to know how they make them. This is a concerning thought, too, since John from twenty-four hours ago wouldn't have given half a shit where all this came from or how it even came to be. John strives to be his twenty-four-hours-ago self. That'd be a lot less... something. It'd be a lot less of all this, whatever this even is.

Giving in, he pulls his shirt off and puts the new one over it, stepping into the tight brown jeans and grabbing his knapsack from where it's situated by his bed. He steps out of the room, taking half a moment to look back at all the small, empty boxes of milk and discarded straws scattered all over the floor. Deciding that cleanliness matters, regardless of the condition of the country, he quickly shoves all of the rubbish behind the door so it at least looks nice in the room.

He likes to think he's considerate.

Nodding his head to whatever's there, John turns back and exits his room, speeding down the stairs two-at-a-time to try and get outside as quickly as he can. He has a sense of false hope, too, that if he gets his heart rate up from the start, the cold outside won't bother him too much.

He's only naïve.

Upon taking the first step outside, John Watson wants so badly to turn tail and delete his last decision to do so. The only thing that keeps him from running back in is the door slamming shut in the wind and startling him, making him take even more steps away from it. This difference in distance is miraculously significant enough where he feels just a small bit of willpower. And that tiny bit is big enough for him to refrain from going back.

"Cold?" Shark, who has been waiting for him by the edge of the paved sidewalk, asks. "Hudders could probably make you a coat if you wanted."

John turns to look at him. Shark has a coat himself. It's long and black - one of those nice trench coats you could get before everything shut down. He keeps the collar unfolded, though, having it stick up around his face in successful attempt to frame it nicely. Or maybe it's to protect it from the wind. But then he could just use a mask, of course. Or it's possible he's too stuck-up to wear such a thing, being posh and all. John can tell by his dialect that he must have come from one of those upscale families with money and connections and important jobs. So of course he has a trench coat like that.

John, noticing his thoughts have just circled back to the first one again, decides to answer the question.

"I'll be fine," he says dismissively.

But he's freezing. His arms, his legs. Even his feet are shivering inside their shoes. Ignore it, he orders himself. You're burning up. Your legs are on fire! Feel that? Fire!

But he fails to convince himself, the attempt at the placebo effect failing as the only flames he feels on his legs are cold ones, lapping at his skin through the fine holes in the delicate fabric of his trousers. He follows Shark's confident, swishing walk down the street, trying to walk as closely behind him as possible to be shielded from the wind. That is a genuinely good thing about being shorter than others, he decides. The major perk of all: being safe from wind in a tall person's footsteps.

He wonders if he could be shielded from any rain or dust in his position, too, but he doesn't want to count all his blessings before they're disproven. He's a firm believer in trying not to get his own hopes up for nothing. Not like he thinks that's a unique trait or anything. He recognises it's a normal function. But he also acknowledges its presence, which might be more of a unique trait than the subject itself.

Don't hope. More specifically, don't give yourself false hope. Especially here, he reminds himself. There's no hope here. I mean, just look at it.

And he's right. This place is completely hopeless in every sense of the word. Like it's been shoved into a bag, beaten repeatedly with a stick and left for dead in the desert. John's willing to bet a lot on the possibility that he looks like he's been through the same thing. He hasn't even seen a comb since a few days before leaving Afghanistan.

Although, looking at Shark, he knows that there's definitely a comb somewhere. You can't just have a flop of curls falling over your face like that if the only thing you do to your hair is sleep on it.

Shark takes a sudden turn now, letting a freezing gust of wind hit John after flowing beneath the tail of his coat. After being initially pissed, because how dare you turn so quickly when you're the one with the nice coat, John feels a bit confused.

"Wait..." he asks. "Where are we going?"

Shark is nonchalant with his response. "Through a narrow, formidable alley in the dark," he smirks. He isn't lying. They are, in fact, entering a narrow, formidable alley in the dark. And John is just a bit concerned.

"We could die in there," he warns. Maybe he's more than just a bit concerned. A little nervous, perhaps. If he were to say it aloud, he'd try to put the emphasis on little, but, naturally, the stress would be heard on nervous regardless. So he keeps it in his head.

Shark shrugs. "I'm guessing not," he says. "If alleyways were ever too dangerous, one would think I'd be dead by now."

John has to admit that's a pretty solid point. Damn. He really doesn't feel like going in.

"Why, exactly," he asks, "are we going into an alley?" He walks closely behind him, preparing to run as the walls surround them. They walk farther and farther in, and John begins to doubt everything. What if Shark is bringing him in here to kill him? What if he's trading him to some sort of trafficking business? The walls start to feel like they're closing in.

"Are you experienced with cycling at all, Watson?" Shark asks absently, disrupting all intrusive thoughts.

John sighs. "Fine. Just ignore my question then."

"I'm not ignoring your question," Shark rejects. "Your answer to mine will determine my answer to yours."

John purses his lips and gives in. "Okay," he says. "I know how to ride a bicycle."

"Quickly?"

"Are we stealing something?"

"Quickly?"

John shrugs. "I guess?"

"Good," Shark replies, pointing to the wall opposite them. In the dim light, they can see three bicycles secured with a lock leaning against the brick. "If you're slow, we might..." He leaves the rest of the sentence out, but John is pretty sure he knows the severity of it.

"...Die?" he asks, and Shark only gives a small laugh in response.

"You're really overestimating how dangerous life is here," he says. "We don't die for doing little things like these, unless the police force sees." He looks at the lock for a few seconds, and then clicks a lettered ring to the right. "I was going to say we might slow down traffic, but I decided against it because it's a terrible joke."

John sets his jaw. "You did it to scare me."

Shark shakes his head. "I did it so you wouldn't take too long. We need to be inside the building before the sun rises and we can be seen." He opens the bicycle lock, tossing it over his shoulder and unleashing the worn-down bicycles from their stagnant position against the pipes on the whitewashed brick wall. "You wouldn't want someone to know we have a building to ourselves with who-knows-how-many goods inside. They'd completely maim us."

John pauses. "So we could die."

Shark pushes one of the three bicycles to John, who quickly gets on as he does the same on another. "Well," he replies, quickly checking the brakes before beginning to pedal, "it depends on how furious the owner of these are once we get back."

John furrows his brow. "You serious, mate?"

"It was phrased as a joke, but yes, I'm serious," Shark sighs, and then starts pedalling. "Come on. Can't be caught."

They turn another corner, and they're out of the alleyway's sight. Just a bit quicker this time around.

John speaks up against the wind as best he can. "So we're stealing these?"

Shark turns his head to reply. "Borrowing."

"Borrowing without permission is stealing," John argues, and he's answered with nothing. Unless there was a reply and he just didn't hear it at all. Another question comes to mind now. The lock isn't Shark's. But he was able to get in.

"How'd you do it, then?" he asks. Shark pretends he's confused. He's stalling, and afraid of trying to find an answer he knows is coming up.

He tightens his grip on the handlebars. "Do... what?"

John speeds up a bit in attempt to catch up. "Open the lock," he clarifies. "That's not something people can just do."

Shark purses his lips, glad John can't see his face now. He'd see the lie. He'd see it right there, and then he'd know who he is, and he'd leave and never come back. And Shark can't have that happen again. So he makes sure his face is turned away just a bit more until he can control his expression, and then looks back.

"I don't know," he replies cautiously. "It's a hobby of mine. A talent, I suppose."

John chuckles in amazement. "On your first try, even," he marvels. "That's past talented. That's... clever."

That's what Shark has been scared to hear. But at least it isn't a question. There's nothing he can get in trouble for answering just yet.

"Thank you," he says softly before turning away and deciding to pedal just a bit faster. He can't fuck things up again. Not after two months ago. He'll need to be more careful this time.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"It's on your left," Shark says, and John, cycling directly behind him, looks at the building.

It's the size of a small shop, clustered between multiple other abandoned places that look almost identical on the outside.

"How can you tell them apart?" he asks, trying to notice the difference between them all as they speed past. The freezing wind slaps his face and arms, and the skin has even turned slightly red at the temperature. He's glad that he's wearing long trousers so his legs aren't exposed.

Shark slows down a bit, looking back at the building and nodding to it with his head. His hands grip the handlebars of his bicycle so tightly that the knuckles are a bright yellowish-white, miraculously still contrasting with his already pale skin.

"The sidewalk," he says. "See anything?"

John's eyes glance over it, and they stop on a large stain on the pavement. His breath catches in his throat, a silent gasp portrayed roughly on his face. It's a bloodstain. It's big. It's dirty. It's dried, too, making the colour a disgusting shade of brown. There are even what look like human remnants on top of it, being swarmed by flies and other airborne insects. Shark watches him observe it for a while before turning a corner again and stopping by some abandoned cars.

"That was the owner of the building," he explains. "She was eaten almost a block down. Nobody knows how to get into her place but me. I mean, I haven't tried yet, but I haven't ever failed at opening a lock before. Oh, hide the bicycles here." He shoves his behind a wrecked taxi, and John puts his under an old truck.

"Eaten?" he asks, following Shark back around the side of the block and over to the building. His eyes are adjusted to the darkness now. It no longer seems pitch-black. He likes that. It makes him feel powerful. Like he can do absolutely anything and nobody else will see.

They both step over the dried blood and dehydrated bits of some sort of human part, Shark reaching the door of the locked building in about ten long strides and beginning to analyse the lock before John even steps within a metre of the building. "Yes," he hears Shark answer. "Eaten. By the Swings."

"What the hell are Swings?"

Shark turns the lock multiple times over, soft clicks emanating from between his gloved, protected fingers. "Remember the map?" he asks. "The one with the territories of gangs and police groups?"

John nods. "Yeah."

"The Swings are the ones you want to stay away from."

He doesn't offer much more explanation. In fact, his voice completely stops there as he hacks into the lock between his thin fingers. John takes a slow inhale of breath, hopping from foot to foot in the cold air. The sun still isn't anywhere to be found.

"So they're the ones that..." he pauses. "...eat each other?"

Shark simply clicks the lock open, sliding it off of the complicated door handle, and moves on to a padlock secured beneath it. "That they are."

John gives an anxious sigh. "Christ."

"Don't say that out loud."

"Shit, sorry."

"Don't say that, either."

The only reply that can't dig him deeper into the hole he's digging for himself is silence, so that's precisely what he uses. He watches as Shark studies the numbered buttons, his eyes squinted ever so slightly as he leans up close to them. Finally, after seconds on end of gruelling silence, he punches in a four-digit-long number.

He says it aloud. "Three, five, six, two."

The door clicks. They're successful.

Shark stands up and opens the door with his gloved hand, not seeming to feel triumphant or proud that he just broke into the place at all. He acts nonchalant - casual, even - like this is something he does every day. Like it's his job and this is just a normal shift at work. Well, perhaps it is. John wouldn't know; he's only known him for a day.

"It's brilliant how you can do that so easily. How is that even possible? It's fantastic!" John breathes, facing him.

Shark shrugs. "It's really unimportant, John, and I recommend we do some more important things with our time right now instead of going through the same conversation again."

They both step inside, and it's not much warmer than it is outdoors. This comes as a surprise to John until he remembers that there's no electricity anymore. Obviously there's no heating anywhere. There isn't any light, either, and even though it's dark outside, it seems to be even darker in here, if possible.

"What do we do now?" John asks. "I can't see a damned thing."

"Wait until the sun comes up," Shark replies. "And now would probably be a good time to teach you some substitutes for your cursing, since you're having a difficult time refraining even though you know it could kill you."

John bites back. "Maybe I want to die."

Shark sounds scornful now. "Maybe you shouldn't say that."

John crosses his arms over his chest like a child. He hears Shark sit down against the wall, and he decides to do the same. He eases himself down next to him and crosses his legs as well. All his appendages are matching now. There's a part of him that finds this rather amusing.

"Fine," he replies. "What should we begin with, then?"

Shark shrugs, and John can feel his shoulder sort of scrape against his own. "Well, to start off, any words with religious backgrounds shouldn't be said. God, Jesus, Christ, 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph', damn and any variants of it, devil, all those."

John leans his head back against the wall. "That's a bit extreme."

"Extreme or not," Shark says, "it'll save your life to replace them with saying 'great flames' instead of God or Jesus. That one's fun. You'll like it."

John scoffs. "Great flames?"

Shark nods. "For example: Oh, great flames, Bertha. You're really in for it this time. Port you and your dry scones!"

"Port?" John asks.

"It's short for transport, or teleport. It basically means someone could move themselves to Hell and you wouldn't care."

"Pfft," John sarcastically laughs. "These are just... stupid."

Shark rolls his eyes. "Port you to the sun. They're necessary, John. Maybe they wouldn't be if you didn't swear like a sailor during a midlife crisis with three broken legs and an overdue mortgage payment."

Damn. John has heard many insults in his life, but that one immediately takes the cake for the most effective. He doesn't even know what to say. And he likes to have a say in just about anything. He sometimes demands it, even. But all he can do now is nothing. His mouth is slightly agape, shocked, impressed.

Shark continues. "Scourge is used as a replacement for things like asshole or bitch or bastard. That one might be easier to remember. You can also call them scraps, too. Bloody and damned and such are equivalent to-"

John can't help it anymore. A snort escapes him, and he covers his mouth with his hand. He can't believe how ridiculous this is. Shark has paused mid-sentence now.

"Are you done?" he asks.

John clears his throat. "Um, yeah. Sorry."

"They can be replaced by living. I bet you've said 'living hell' at least once in your little dramatic life, so I'm sure you won't have much of a problem with that one."

"Wow, you're really on a roll with those insults," John remarks, and Shark pauses.

"Um," he says, shifting his position on the floor. "Thank you."

John, after a brief moment of waiting unsuccessfully for an apology, nods. "What about pissed?"

"Tiffed."

John pinches the bridge of his nose with his first finger and his thumb. "These are so bad. I feel like a six-year-old, using substitutes like these."

"Well, until you don't feel that way," Shark replies, standing up as his eyes are now adjusted to the lack of light in the room. "Don't say the normal words, either. Nowhere outside our camp. There are cameras where you don't expect them. There are traitors. There are spies. We call those the Sniffers, by the way. You know, like a dog."

John rolls his eyes. "I know what a dog is."

Shark nods, a faint smile tugging gently at the corners of his lips. Whether or not it's a genuine smirk or a cynical one, John can't tell.

"Good."

John nods in response, standing up as well. As he becomes acclimated to the darkness, his strained eyes start to see what's around.

The first thing he notices just as Shark does. It's a shelf over near the main entrance, protected behind what looks like a front desk. And it's lined with bags. Tons and tons of bags the consistency of old potato sacks. They slump over against each other, making the shelf bend in the middle with their weight. They both whisper it at the same time, Shark sounding excited and John more on the confused side of things.

"Flour."

Looking around some more, they find that most of the shelves are completely packed with it. Large fabric bags of flour are practically overflowing from their tight spots on the walls. John, never having previously seen this much flour in such a small space prior to this very moment, doesn't really know what to think and only focuses on what he knows he should care about. He's cold. So cold. He decides to hop from one foot to the other as Shark discovers even more connecting rooms packed with all sorts of other things. Sugar, powdered milk, aged cheese...

Water.

Just as a bit of light begins shining through the boarded windows and glints through the glass bottles of it, John sees it too. The third connecting room is full of bottled water.

He's forgotten about being cold already. John Watson walks slowly into the room, standing in awe just outside the doorway and gaping at what sits before him.

"Look at that," he whispers breathlessly. "That's enough to help a hundred more people! Two hundred!"

Shark scoffs. "Yeah, for a day," he says. "And there'd be a stampede if we just started giving out water."

John knots his eyebrows together, trying a pout on for size. "So?"

Shark shrugs. "To put it simply, we can't share it."

If it's possible, every possible facial expression, emotion and thought have all portrayed themselves on John's face in the last second. He stops at irritation, and stays there. "I'm sorry. What?!"

"You aren't deaf, Watson," Shark snarls. "You know what I said."

John sets his jaw. "So you're telling me that we've got all this water and you don't want to share it with any of the other people dying in this godforsaken desert?" He maintains steady eye contact. He's learnt that it's highly effective in tense conversations.

"Oh, do get a grip, John," Shark replies coolly. "There are likely near four hundred and thirty-seven bottles in this room. A healthy person on their own should probably go through one a day. Shared between me, you, Hudders, Gilbert and Mycroft, that's roughly eighty-six and one fourth bottles for all of us, more or less. Eighty-six bottles, eighty-six days. That's only a quarter of a year, John."

John still won't budge. "But you've obviously got other sources. You've survived this long. You clearly have access to water."

"So does everyone," Shark negotiates. "Everyone still alive has as much access to water as we do."

"Yeah," John growls. "And let's keep it that way."

Shark purses his lips and turns away in defiance. He's sick of arguing. It won't get them anywhere. He dismissively begins rummaging through the shelf before him, taking special things and placing them on the floor. Preserved pears and peaches. Canned tangerines. Raisins, chestnuts, oats, honey. And, eventually, there's a pause.

John finally pays him some attention again after their little spat. "What's going on?" he asks Shark's back, which is frozen as he peers into the cabinet he's searching.

Shark is slow and shocked as he reaches in and pulls out a different sort of bottle. John knows exactly what it is before he hears it said, but he listens anyway.

"The back of this cupboard is filled with wine."

Which was probably put there for cooking. But it's wine, it's there, and there's a lot of it. John eyes the bottle from his spot in the room, and Shark takes it off the shelf.

"How empty is your knapsack?"

John grabs it from his back and pulls it open at the top. "I've only got a map in it," he says. "There's room."

Shark carefully places the bottle into the opened bag, and John tugs the drawstrings to close it. They're both painfully careful with it, as if it's so precious that it could shatter or chip at any second. The glass is paper in their eyes. They can feel it ripping under their deprived fingertips, permeated by the liquid and eager to break. Neither of them have even tasted wine in the last year, at least. Both have very different reasons for this, naturally, but the outcome is the same. It's the knowledge that this bottle can not be broken. This can never be wasted. They're going to use it, and they're going to enjoy it, God damn it.

The sun is beginning to peek more visibly into the room, so they make a silent, collective decision to head back.

"We'll come back?" John asks, to which Shark replies, "Obviously," and swings the door wide open.

He checks for any people that might see them. There are currently none on the street, so they take the chance and hurry outside, closing and locking the door behind them. Rushing back and claiming their stolen bicycles again, they ride back the way they came, their shadows long and their mid-tones orange in the fresh morning sun. They're successful, satisfied. It's a good feeling. A fresh one. And, finally, John no longer feels cold.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"We're back, Hudders!" Shark calls, not bothering to wait for John as he rushes up the stairs. Hudson peeks her head out of the main door of her flat, her eyebrows wrinkled and furrowed as she only half-jokingly replies.

"Took you bloody long enough," she chastises. "It's half eight in the morning! You left when? Half past five?"

Shark sighs at the top of the stairs, practically dragging himself back down again so he can reply.

"And your point?" he asks, and Hudson points at the ceiling, referring to something just past it. Her voice is whispery, discreet, her eyes a bit wider than John's previously seen them.

"You've got a new one."

John looks back and forth between them. "A new what?" he asks, but he's ignored, invisible to their conversation, which seems to him like a completely foreign tongue. A "new one"? What the hell is that even supposed to mean?

He follows Shark up the stairs, knowing he'll soon figure it out on his own. His anticipation is surging through his head. It's a tidal wave against the inside of his thick yet delicate skull, and it only grows more intense as he ascends. His left foot hits the top stair, his right landing on the sturdy floor of the next level. Shark turns briefly to him, stopping for a moment to speak.

"Don't be alarmed," he says without any other context whatsoever. A variety of possibilities run through John's head. A drug dealer? A murderer? A prostitute? A shipment of food or preserves from his stupid brother? An animal? He's no real clue.

But, stepping into the main living area, John's only slightly startled to see a young woman sitting on a woven chair and watching them enter the room. She's a completely normal person, thank God. Unless she is one of the possible things he's considered but just really good at hiding it. Unlikely, though. That's a relief.

Shark immediately moves to his chair, sitting down as John awkwardly sits adjacent to him, carefully placing the knapsack on the floor.

"Hello," Shark greets the woman, who nods in return. "How can we help you?"

She clenches her jaw, playing with the sleeve of her shirt. She looks pained, scared. She takes a wavering breath, her voice vacillating as she looks Shark in the eye.

"I need your help."

And, with another deep breath and a slightly agonised wince, the girl rolls up her sleeve.


	5. The Star Theo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we see a glimpse into the past.

He stood in a shadow. He liked to do that. It gave him a false sense of identity, of mystery. And God knows mystery was his weak point, even in himself. He shivered at the mere sound of the word back then, the whimsical rhythm tapping against his tongue. An enigma of a word, just like how he considered himself an enigma of a person.

"You brought food?"

The person across from him nodded. "Just the kind you requested."

"And what's your price?"

The shadow facing him smirked. "You know exactly what it is. Stop acting like this isn't routine by now."

"It really isn't."

Denial shows itself in many odd forms, and it just so happened to show up here. He didn't acknowledge its presence, though. He only disagreed out of disbelief that he had grown attached to another human being. For him, that'd be a bloody impossible feat.

"It has been for the last week. I'd say it's going strong, Mr. Billy Scott."

He paused. "I only want the food," he tried to argue. "That's why I cooperate. I'm hungry."

The other, shorter silhouette shook its head. "Now we both know very well that that's not entirely true. Now, come on. We made a deal. Keep to your end of the bargain." The shadow's fingers outstretched themselves.

It stepped forward, reaching out. Reaching for the moth.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The client pulls back the sleeve of her shirt, and John immediately gasps through his teeth. "Holy-"

He stops himself before making any language-related mistakes. But it's so hard. It's so, so difficult right now. Because, at this very moment, he's watching a girl he doesn't know sit in front of him and Shark, revealing something horrific from underneath her sleeve.

His hand is covering his mouth. He wasn't expecting this at all.

"That's bad," he groans. He feels queasy looking at it, and he's an army doctor, for Christ's sake. He's seen things. But not this. Even the girl herself looks away from the sight as she uncovers it. Her teeth are clenched together, and she softly hisses through them, trying to control the pain.

Her arm looks nothing like an arm.

The meat of her thumb is almost completely gone. A gash runs from the middle of it to just past her wrist, nearly cutting it off completely. There's a bite in her forearm. It looks like someone legitimately took a mouthful of it off. Her skin is torn and some falling off, and most of her muscles and veins are completely exposed. There's a lot of blood, but it's been caught by her black sleeve. Shark gasps a bit, and John suddenly realises that he's the one who should be doing something. He knows how to help.

"Shark," he whispers. "How much medical equipment do you have?"

Shark swallows, trying to keep his eyes away from the injury in front of them. "Um... We've got plasters, fabric, just a few pills for pain relief... Mrs. Hudson probably has some thread we could borrow..."

John bites his lip. "We might need some fire, too. To sterilise it."

Shark responds so quickly that it's as if he's reading off of cue cards. "We've got a lighter, but I'm not sure how much of it is left. Otherwise we could use matches."

John nods. "I'll need it. Everything you've got here."

Shark swiftly gets up, dodging the blood that is slowly starting to drip onto the floor. "I'll get some towels, too," he decides before leaving the room. John turns back to the girl, and she whimpers.

"I'm going to die," she says. "I know I'm gonna die."

John shakes his head. "You're not going to die," he assures her. "You've just got some nasty wounds. We just need to patch you up and clean everything and you'll be fine."

She's crying a bit now. John senses a small panic attack from her. "Are you sure?" she asks weakly. "How would you know?"

John walks over, sitting right in front of her and meeting her eyes. They're extremely dilated. She's hyperventilating. She needs to stop panicking.

"I'm a doctor," he says softly. "I promise you that you're completely safe right now. Okay?"

She squeezes her eyes shut, and a tear falls out of one of them. John softly holds her untouched wrist in his hand and takes her pulse. It's steady, but a bit fast. So she hasn't lost too much blood, but she's breathing too fast.

"Looks like they missed your arteries," John observes. "That's good. You're in luck."

The girl looks completely petrified. John wonders with a twinge of remorse if these are the kinds of people Shark takes in. Will he be required to patch people up every day now? Maybe he shouldn't have moved in.

But this isn't the problem right now. The problem is that this girl is having a panic attack, and John needs to help her snap out of it.

"Okay," he says to her, softly but with a bite of urgency. "Look me in the eyes."

She does as she's told. At least she's coherent enough to do that. There's still time before she completely shuts down her mental capacity and gets lost in a pool of her own terror. Her blood is dripping onto the rug now. Hopefully they can get it out.

"I want you to only breathe in halfway," John instructs. "Only take half of a breath. And now hold it there. One, two, three, four, five... Now let it go."

She does as she's told, automatically gasping for more air after exhaling, and John shakes his head.

"Listen to me," he says. "You may not gasp. Only repeat what I've told you. Don't take in a gasp because you're getting too much air."

Her eyes are closed now, and she focuses on her breathing. She's still terrified, but at least she's got a grip.

Footsteps sound nearby, and Shark returns to the room with a box of various items. He hands it to John, sitting back down in his chair and crossing his legs. John takes the lighter from the box and flicks it on.

"This'll be just a bit painful," he warns, "but it won't feel much different than it already does." He moves the flame over the wounds, making the top layer of flesh turn black and singed. The girl winces in pain, but she upkeeps her level of sanity as John works. It doesn't take long before he's done sterilising it. Now he's on to the stitching.

"Shark," he orders suddenly, and his new flatmate is instantly by his side. He's like a bloody dog, that man. Loyal and obnoxious. An only half-perfect combination. "Take a needle and some thread and help me sew her skin back together. It'll be pretty easy to see what goes where. Just fit it like a puzzle."

Shark does as he's told. His fingers move over the pile of needles he's brought upstairs, trying to find the thinnest and most curved one in there. He picks one out, tying some thin thread through it and seeing the first torn piece back on as John prepares a needle of his own. He's careful with her arm, which is a very rare trait of Shark's. He usually doesn't bother being precise, but he does now. He has to. He pokes the needle through the very edge of her skin. One, two, one, two, pull, tighten, secure, repeat. He makes a pattern in his head, rotating between it all. And, while he's doing this, he speaks.

"So, Miss...?"

The lady purses her lips. "I don't want anyone knowing my name," she says, "but you can refer to me as Lucy for the time being."

Shark nods. "So, Lucy, how did you find us?" he asks. "Please let me know. This information is quite needed, just so I'm sure I won't be raided in the near future." He makes another stitch. He's working quickly. John glances over, impressed at his flawless, efficient work. Impressed but not exactly surprised.

"Well, I was injured and wandering through the streets, and I ran into some man - he told me his name was Lestrade - that said to go to 221B Baker Street and that a man upstairs would help me with my case." Lucy explained. "He didn't tell me you'd fix my arm, too, though. And he didn't tell me there were two." She's shaking a bit now, which is making it rather difficult to stitch her up, but neither of them say a word about it. They both know she can't help it. It's the human being's natural defence against trauma. It's better for her to shake. Not like she's got a choice.

"Oh," Shark nods. "It was Gerald."

John pulls the needle through her skin, pulling two torn pieces together and wiping the oozing blood with a kerchief from the bundle of makeshift first-aid supplies. They're so close to being done patching her up, incredibly enough, mostly thanks to Shark's almost superhuman speed. John focuses on just listening and finishing her last wound as Shark keeps speaking.

"So, you're here for a reason, obviously," he says. "Enlighten me."

There's a pained, traumatised pause between dialogue. John finishes their last stitch, totalling about 52 stitches from each of them, and starts wiping the blood off of her arm and the floor. They tie off the ends of the thread, cutting it and placing their needles on the side table to be sanitised later. Lucy sighs with relief as she sees her patched, now recognisable arm now, gaining the confidence to keep speaking as John wraps the fabric around it, securing it on each end with some string.

"I had a teapot," she explains quietly as John's wannabe bandage falls apart and he's forced to start over. "It was hundreds of years old, and belonged to my grandmother. She had given it to me before she died, and I had it on hand when it stopped raining."

John, at this point, mentally screams "sod it" at the fabric and takes a different material from next to him. It's more polyester-like than the lady strip of fabric, and he starts to wrap it as Lucy continues.

"I've been using it, now that things are gone. My home was raided and I grabbed everything I could as I ran. The teapot just happened to make it into my arms that day." Lucy watches the fabric being wrapped around her thumb, heading in the direction of her elbow. "So I've been using it in the streets. I happened to be using it today just outside of my tent when two people came up behind me. One of them stole my teapot, and they both used axes and knives on my arm. One of them tried to... He..." She swallows. "He ate my stupid arm. He ate it."

Shark nods, his brows on the verge of knitting themselves together. "What did they look like?"

Lucy closes her eyes, trying to recall what she'd seen. "I can't really tell you. They were mostly behind me, see. And it was all so fast..."

"Well, what can you tell me?" Shark inquires, and John finally finished wrapping up her arm successfully. He goes and sits back in his chair, listening to everything and trying his best to absorb it all.

"I can tell you that one of them was shorter. From what I could tell, they were both men." She sighed. "I don't know. I just want my teapot back."

Shark nods slowly. "What kind of teapot is this?" he asks, casting an odd look her way. John knows he should read between the lines for that one, but doesn't really know how. Lucy seems to know, however, and becomes more awkward, shamefully wringing the end of her shirt with her good hand.

"Just a clay teapot," she says quietly. "But I use it to make money. I mean, I use it to trade. It's the only way I can stay above water."

Shark sits forward in his chair, staring her down. "And how, exactly, do you use it to trade?"

For the longest time, Lucy is incredibly quiet. John glances between them various times, trying to understand what he's been missing. But he's not very good at this. He doesn't even consider himself average at it, simply because he has no clue that he's up against a modern-day genius. Truth be told, John Watson is very average. Nothing less. He's just absolutely terrible at comparisons.

"You see," Lucy finally answers, "I work underground. In the stations." She bites her lip, and Shark narrows his eyes.

"Say it," he says quietly. "Don't try to hide from me. I know what's going on, but I legally can't help you unless you say it." Excitement is splashed vividly across his features. He looks nearly maniacal, but the ebbing hint of childlike playfulness keeps it from turning completely in that direction.

"Fine, then," Lucy says. "I make drugs. I trade them. Narcotics are my specialty, and everyone underground knows it. It's the only way I get my food and water. My only access to it. Please don't turn me in; it's all I've got." She's finally done shaking now. She'll be back to normal pretty soon, John guesses, which is mostly a relief to him.

Shark rolls his eyes. "Oh, you're a complete idiot if you think we're working with the scraps," he snarls. "We wouldn't touch them even if they offered us a trip back in time, an Irish Setter and a glass of champagne."

John points a finger in the air. "Well, we'd definitely not refuse the offer," he clarifies, "but no, we still would not touch them."

Shark nods. "What I'm trying to say is that laws don't matter anymore. I'm a consulting detective. I take any case these days. I don't give a second thought to what drugs you're shoving up people's noses."

Lucy sets her jaw. "Are you getting my teapot back or not?"

Shark's expression suddenly mirrors Lucy's, his eyes becoming harder and less sympathetic as hers do. "Name a time frame."

She raises her eyebrows. "Name a price."

John is so close to losing complete interest. He's got a bottle of wine in his knapsack, and its remaining his top priority until anything more interesting comes up, which it hasn't yet. He sighs quietly, watching Shark negotiate inside his own head and Lucy watch.

Shark finally replies, his figure stiff and uneasy. "A favour."

Lucy scoffs. "What's that entail?" she asks, and Shark shrugs.

"That's my price," he states calmly, even though the rest of him suggests anything and almost everything other than peacefulness. "I'm doing you a favour, so you owe me one back."

Lucy sits back, carefully crossing her arms and trying not to bust open any of her wounds. "You're speaking as if the deal has already been made."

Shark's voice is intimidating now. "You're speaking as if it hasn't."

John, even though he's only known him for a day or so, can already tell what that tone means. It's an "I've got you cornered" tone. The kind where it's clear who's won. Checkmate.

Lucy sighs. "Well, I only ever make deals with definite amounts of tangible things," she shrugs. "Not a simple promise."

Shark shakes his head. "That's not true," he fires back. Lucy clears her throat in what John can only pinpoint as anxiety and tries to keep defending her case.

"Then prove it."

And never in a million lifetimes would John expect what comes next. He's completely helpless in the eyes of fate, unsuspecting of how turned upside-down his world is going to be. His chin is resting on his fist, his mind terribly close to wandering off, his expression blatantly and unforgivably bored as Shark looks Lucy over for a few seconds and opens his mouth to speak. He takes a breath, and then doesn't hesitate to go off on one of the longest yet most efficient and elegantly displayed tangents John has ever heard. And he has heard some damned tangents.

"The most obvious evidence is that you're desperate. You put your teapot over the importance of your own arm when coming to us for help, and couldn't be bothered worrying too much about you injuries once we began discussing it. You were shaking earlier as well, a common side effect of thinking you're going to die, but that also subsided at the mere mention of your little materialistic possession. The object itself is so important to you that you'll completely disregard your own trauma to get it back, and you know you can't do it yourself, clearly suggesting you'll do anything for someone to get it for you. Oh, fantastic evidence! I'm convinced now! I'm not done yet. There's more, if you'll be so patient."

Shark takes a quick breath, catching John's frozen and stunned gaze in the tiny moment this happens. John's mouth is just the smallest bit ajar, because what the hell? Shark finds this both amusing and fuelling to his act, turning back and continuing his small performance.

"You've gained a significant amount of weight in the past five or six months - no, seven - even though there isn't much food around. So you've been eating, not only when you're hungry, but when you're under stress. That's why your body retains so much of it. Because of your addiction to food, it's clear that you're not one to think through things. You act on impulses alone, not afraid to manipulate people to get what you feel needs to be done. So you are a bargainer, but you pretend you aren't just so you can keep getting your way. Why? Oh, maybe because you've got a brother in another country coming to try to pluck you out of this one and you want to have enough power and status to bribe our way out if things don't go as planned. They won't, by the way. The police guard Heathrow constantly, and I'm sure you won't be able to fight off twenty of them all alone as your brother lands the jet-"

"Stop!"

Lucy's voice shoots them both in the middle of the eardrums. John's completely fixated on Shark, too dumbfounded to even process her exclamation or see her outstretched hand begging for mercy. He laughs breathlessly, amazement igniting his eyes.

"Terrific!" he breathes. "How on Earth did you do that?"

Shark says nothing, but does glance at him with a slightly smug expression before turning his attention back to Lucy. She's desperate, just like he said. She needs silence. She can't have any more exposure.

"I'm sure you know my real name, then?" she asks defeatedly, looking straight down at the floor.

"No," Shark admits. "I'm an observer. Not a psychic. Your physical and mental state never give away a combination of letters only legally and socially relating to you. Otherwise I would have memorised Lestrade's name by now."

John can only shake his head in disbelief. What just happened? Was any of it real? Is he even alive? He watches Lucy slump over in her chair and sigh as Shark restates a previous point.

"I'll get you the teapot," he reasons, "and you'll owe me a favour."

Lucy is hesitant, but, finally, she nods.

"Now name a time frame," Shark says. "Anything you think is reasonable. I get my way, and you get yours."

Lucy narrows her eyes, pursing her lips and smirking up at them. "Alright," she says almost vengefully. "I'm giving you until sundown tonight to deliver it to my tent or the deal is off."

Shark sighs. "Let me guess. You aren't going to tell me where your tent is so you can slim down our time frame. You were waiting here for a while, and you hadn't lost any significant amount of blood, so you're probably nearby. Also, your shoes are full of dirt. Only place near here with dirt like that is Regent's Park. And don't think I haven't seen all those tents over there every time I've paid a visit. So nice try on your attempt to beat me."

Lucy sort of pouts at that. "Fine. But at sundown, the deal is off if it isn't back."

Shark nods. "But once time's out, we'll stop trying to return it to you, even if we've already got it in our hands, and you'll just have to come back to us to make a deal again. That or find it yourself. I can see right through the loopholes you're setting up. And to think I had thought you were a good bargainer... I suppose I was wrong for the first time this year."

John decides to interject now, breaking up the power struggle as best he can. "Actually, speaking of coming back, it would be great if you could stop by in about a week so I can take a look at your wounds."

Lucy nods in agreement to Shark, seeming to ignore John completely, which makes him a bit pissed at her even if it happened to be an accident.

"Deal?" Shark asks in a low voice, and Lucy replies accordingly.

"Absolutely."

They shake hands, Lucy using the one that isn't torn to shreds, and John tries speaking again.

"Don't move your arm too much," he says. "Not until I say otherwise. And I'll want to have a look at it now and then to make sure things are-"

"Oh, don't you worry," Lucy nods. "I heard you. I'm not careless enough to let it get infected and inflamed. I'll be back. Besides-" She directs an odd glance at Shark's stoic, frozen face. "-I still owe this little boy a favour."

Shark watches her as she slowly leaves the room. She pauses in the doorway and turns back to John.

"Thank you," she says, her features completely genuine, her face so kind and grateful that John is taken off-guard by the sudden shift in attitude. But he nods back, giving her a smile.

"'Course."

Lucy turns, cradling her arm with her other, and walks down the stairs. Neither Shark nor John move at all until they hear her open the front door downstairs and step outside.

Finally, John turns to his new flatmate with a silent look of astonishment. Shark seems confused.

"What?" he asks. "What is it?"

"The thing you did," John explains, dumbfounded. "You knew everything about her. You could tell, in a split second, everything you needed to know."

Shark shrugs. "And?" he asks.

John looks straight at him. "That was..." He tries to find the right word for it, but he can't really, so he uses the closest match he can think of. "...amazing."

Shark seems to be even more confused now. He faces John, frozen for a few seconds before asking, "Really?"

John doesn't even reply. He just stares breathlessly at Shark, shaking his head in complete disbelief. It's rare that John is ever genuinely stunned by magic tricks or acts of talent, but this man right in front of him just had him retract that statement completely. Shark seems to be taken extremely off-guard, and he blinks silently at the floor for a few moments before muttering, "Her real name is Soo Lin. She'd had it embroidered into the back of her shoe. It's a custom option from Converse, or it was before, you know. I didn't want to tell her I knew, though."

John shakes his head. "How in God's name are you able to do such a thing?" Part of him also wonders if Converse is still around. Maybe it still exists in the parts of the world that aren't wrung out yet and people are still alive.

Shark tilts his head to the side, much like a dog would. John notices that Shark is actually much like a dog. He's got the puppy eyes, even, and the childish demeanour. He takes a deep breath before shrugging and slowly answering, "It's just something I've always been able to do."

Unbelievable. John has no idea how Shark isn't famous worldwide yet. What he can do is really special, whatever on Earth it is. "Have I heard of you before?" he asks. He's got to be known by some sort of audience. There's no way nobody knows about this.

Shark sighs. "I sure hope not," he replies. "That'd sort of ruin our relationship, now wouldn't it?"

John has no time to reply before Shark claps his hands once together and smiles superficially. "Well then," he says with an overabundance of forced charisma. "We have a teapot to find, don't we? We should probably head out. It's getting..." He checks his wrist. It's the wrist without the watch on it, but he doesn't really care. "It's getting closer to our time cutoff."

John opens his mouth to reenter the last subject of conversation, but Shark has already raced downstairs, reaching the font door before John can even ask what that meant.

"Oh, and John?" he calls back up the stairs with a breath of forced confidence. "The, um... That thing you did, with her arm? That was, um... good."

And then, remembering the words John chose to use for him, he adds, "Terrific," and walks outside, the boarded door swinging gently behind him.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

It was the seventeenth of November, 2007.

The night was raw and warm, the wind circling around the dead trees and rustling the few leaves that were left. Two figures sat close to each other, leaning up against a deteriorating brick wall and staring distantly out into the street. The only light was coming from the darkened sky, and they existed alongside it, and the lack of it, peacefully. They were merely waves connecting with the rest of the ocean. Simple, easy, serene.

Or, that's how they would seem, if only they had shut up.

If you walked over to them, eavesdropping on their tones and words and intentions, you'd quickly find the situation to be anything and everything but content. The serenity would turn to tension. The peace would eventually turn to hell.

Key word: Eventually.

But, before that happened, they were caught in an almost endless cycle of refusal to cooperate. Because, as one of them was trying to hide their identity, the other was trying so hard to find out what it was.

"I never caught your name," said the first. His hand connected with the other's, his fingers twining themselves between the foreign ones as the two palms were softly pulled together by their own power. The other looked down at them, blinking and wondering whether or not to squeeze back.

It took him loads of restraint to not reply with "I didn't throw it". He knew very well it was far too stereotypical of a response. So, in compensation, he stayed silent. And he thought.

"Oh, come on," the first encouraged. "I don't want this to be some Cinderella story. What's your name?"

The air was empty then. Their eyes met, and then disconnected. The silent one anxiously averted his gaze.

"I don't want to scare you away."

The first chuckled softly, leaning his head back against the brick. His eyes looked upward, catching the moon's reflection even though it was hidden behind a thick layer of dirty air. "Impossible."

"No," the other rebutted. "Very possible." He sighed, taking his hand out of the other's grasp. "I think this is my cue to leave."

"It's your cue to speak," came the desperate reply. "Please. I want to see you again."

He was replied to with a lazy shrug. "You won't want to once I tell you."

"I will. I know I will."

"Then you're naïve. And what you 'know' is wrong." The silhouette continued walking, and the other raced up behind it.

"But I want to keep seeing you!" he begged. "Come on!"

"If you want to see me, find me like you usually do."

"No!" the impatient young man snapped as he had finally lost his patience. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, sighing and toning his voice back down to a whisper. "No. Please. All I wanna know is your name."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you mine. My last name, anyway. You already know the first."

"Why?"

"Because," he shrugged. "I wanna know you for real. I don't want this to be fake. I don't want to know you only through a mask." He swallowed and bit his lip, staring off into space. "It's a getup. A façade. A stupid stage name. And why do you have it? There's no reason why you shouldn't just use your actual name. I bet it's so you look cool."

It wasn't. But he was not going to tell him.

"I bet it's so you can be all mysterious to all the other people out there. So you can intimidate them. Intrigue them. Entice them. I'd bet you have a lot of sex thanks to that stage name and that stupid coat."

The other raised his eyebrows in response. "Well, on the contrary, I actually-"

"Look," the first sighed, "what I'm really trying to say is that I'm jealous."

There was a beat of nothingness. A gust of wind twirled through the coat, and the owner of it shook his head. "Sorry, what?" That was the first time anyone had ever mentioned craving hyper-sexuality to his face.

"I'm jealous of your false identity," the man clarified.

Ah.

"You care about it more than you even bother to care about me." he continued, softly shoving the other's shoulder and beginning to walk away. "I think it's actually my cue to leave," he sighed. "Thank you for the fun time."

But before he got even halfway across the street, the boy he left behind stopped him on his tracks with one simple sentence.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

If a person was ever possessed by ice, the boy in the street was definitely the one to experience it the strongest out of them all. He stopped dead in his tracks, his whole body stiffening up. Turning around, he looked the other straight in the eye.

"Your name is Sherlock Holmes? For real? You weren't lying?" he asked. "So you're the Dangerous One? The one with the ability to get close to you just to stab you in the back and outsmart you to get your money and food? The one we're all supposed to avoid?"

Sherlock refrained from taking a bow, but he gave a slight nod. "In the flesh."

The boy in the street scoffed. "I don't believe it," he decided, turning back around. "That's one hundred percent bullshit."

Sherlock, wishing that were the case, shook his head. "It's not a joke," he tried to explain.

But the other boy never heard him say it. A large thunderous noise suddenly sounded and echoed around them, and he collapsed immediately to the street.

Shocked, Sherlock Holmes stepped forward.

"Teddy?"

It was hard to see him in the dark, but what he could see was a slumped figure in the middle of the street. He walked over to it, the walk turning quickly into a jog as he started understanding what was going on.

Teddy was laying flat on his face, curled up into a ball on the dusty, pothole-ridden street. He was loosely clutching his chest with his seemingly weak arms. Sherlock swallowed, kneeling down next to him and rolling him over.

"Theodore," he prompted, but to no avail. There was only silence. Just his own voice, now brokenly avoiding the truth.

"Teddy."

And then there was a soft wheeze.

Teddy's chest painfully inflated, his eyes opening and his jaw clenching in pain.

"It hurts," was all he could say then, his eyes rolling around and his brain on the very brink of unconsciousness.

Sherlock looked down at him. "I know," was all he could bear to say back.

"I'm..." A shuddering breath. "... scared."

Sherlock wanted so badly to look away. He wanted to turn his entire body in the other direction and squeeze his eyes shut and cover his ears with his hands. But he was frozen there, not because of empathy but because of a physical inability to actually move at all.

A question now. "Have you been... telling the truth all along? Are you really... Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded, swallowing the accumulating shards of emotion in his throat. "Yes."

He didn't know what to do. He could only suspect it had been a gunshot wound, but he didn't even think people around had guns. Maybe he'd just been terribly mistaken all this time.

What do you do when somebody's dying?

Sherlock didn't have a clue. He was beginning to panic now.

How would I want to die?

That question helped just a bit. Because the obvious answer was comfortably. And that made sense enough to him. So Sherlock Holmes took Teddy's failing body in his arms, hoisting him up a bit and laying his head down on his lap.

They both looked up at the stars.

"Sherlock?" Teddy asked weakly, his breath shallow and slow. He had a punctured lung. Sherlock was sure of it.

"Yes?"

"How long have I known you?"

He had to count in his head. "Eight days."

"Oh," Teddy replied. "That's less than I'd thought."

Sherlock shrugged. "Time is always warped when you're dealing with a foreign lifestyle."

"Well, regardless of time," Teddy wheezed, blood beginning to trickle out of the edge of his mouth, "I wanted you to know that I love you."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He couldn't say it back. He barely even knew Teddy at all. And love was such a stupid, irrelevant thing. It was pointless, and it didn't make sense, and it was open-ended, and unpredictable. Sherlock felt personally intimidated by the very thought. Philophobic, perhaps. A cold-blooded, caged-hearted, under-sympathetic philophobe. So he softly changed the subject.

"Look at that star up there," he said quietly, pointing to a bright one just above their heads. "See it?"

Teddy nodded a bit. "It's nice. They all are. They're the same, all those stars."

Sherlock shook his head. "But that one is different," he murmured. "It's different because I'm about to give it a name."

"Don't you think it has one already?" Teddy asked faintly, and Sherlock shook his head.

"Out of all the billions of stars in the galaxy alone, I'm sure my chances of picking a nameless one are definitely in my favour today."

Teddy smiled softly. For a moment, he almost forgot he was dying.

"Well, what'll you name it then?" he asked, his hand reaching for Sherlock's and squeezing it tightly.

"I'm going to name it Theo."

"After me?"

"After you," Sherlock confirmed. "Maybe you'll be able to touch it when..." He stopped himself from finishing the sentence, suddenly feeling the urge to start sobbing uncontrollably. He knew he couldn't do that in front of Teddy. So he shut up before things got worse.

Teddy's smile faded as he remembered. Even with the pain in his chest and the inability to breathe, he had still forgotten the inevitable. Fear crawling back into his stomach, he furrowed his brow and stared as hard as he could at that star, trying his absolute best to distract himself again.

"I'll touch that star," he promised solemnly. "I'll touch it and then I'll bring a bit of it back to you."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Okay." He didn't dare say another word in fear that his emotion would leak into them. It would only take one break in the voice to signify his inner turmoil. And that wouldn't help either of them.

Faint footsteps suddenly caught Sherlock's attention. Turning his head, he saw the silhouette of a policeman. He had a gun slung over his shoulder, secured by a leather strap. He stopped by a wall and took out a sign, holding it in place there and nailing it in.

Sherlock set his jaw, suddenly wriggling out from under Teddy's dying body.

"I'm going to be right back."

Teddy's eyes shot open. "No," he begged. "Sherlock, I need a distraction. Please..."

But he was already gone.

There's a light switch in the very centre of your brain. It goes off when something pushes it a bit too hard, or pulls one of the strings tied around it. The switch in Sherlock's brain was just like that. Because the man that shot Teddy didn't even try to save him. It was no act of self-defence. It was in cold blood, and it was no fair. And here he was, casually putting a sign up on the wall. Each step Sherlock took, the switch kept going darker and darker until he was almost sprinting toward the policeman in absolute fury.

People didn't really talk to police anymore. It was a sort of unspoken rule that they were a different breed and weren't to be tampered with. But this was beyond tampering. This was murder.

Sherlock stopped right in front of him, staring him down and trying not to notice his own watering eyes. The policeman barely even acknowledged him at all until Sherlock decided to speak first.

"You shot him," he whimpered angrily.

The policeman shrugged, turning his back and walking away. "Didn't you read the sign?"

Taken aback by the response, Sherlock reluctantly turned to it. It was a durable metal sign, the side-of-a-busy-street kind, and it read this:

Cautionary notice:

As of 17 November '07,  
all persons caught using  
vulgar or offensive terms  
of any kind will be  
rightfully executed on  
behalf of the United  
Kingdom. Civilians are  
advised to pretend they  
have a live television  
audience.

Sherlock reread it three times, completely outraged. He wanted to kill the policeman. He wanted to rip the gun off his back and drive it into his chest. He wanted to hit his face with the stock and whip it with the barrel. But he couldn't. The policeman had left.

Confused and terrified, Sherlock Holmes trudged back to the street he was previously on. His heart sank as he looked at the figure strewn across it. He didn't even have to come near him to know Teddy was dead. He could tell.

Teddy died alone, he realised suddenly with what felt like a punch to the gut. I left him alone and he was scared and isolated and in pain.

He had reached his body then, staring down at his terrified, marbled eyes. They were wide open, unmoving, turning dry. It wasn't until then that Sherlock noticed the blood, either. It was pooled around him like an outline, soaking through his clothes and dribbling down his chin. And it smelt wretched.

Turning to the side, Sherlock hunched over, his hands on his knees, and vomited for the first time for almost as long as he could remember. He dry-heaved when there was nothing left, and it was then that he noticed he was crying. His cheeks were dripping wet. Ignoring that, he spat out as much of what was left in his mouth as he could. He knew he didn't have the strength to deal with the body. He had to leave Teddy alone. Again.

He died alone, so surely he won't mind decomposing alone, too.

As soon as he thought it, Sherlock was shocked by the morbid thought. But he was somehow not surprised. He wasn't thinking straight, probably from the sudden trauma.

He was shaking uncontrollably. The shakes came in little waves, surging through his whole body as he tried to control them. It was a common mechanism for dealing with fear, he knew, but it didn't help him much. He still felt the same. And, on top of that, his body doing things without his say made him feel trapped and out-of-control.

He heard himself whimper. For a long time, he hadn't even come to terms with the fact that it came from him. He stumbled numbly, and still very emotionally, down the street, having one more coherent thought before losing himself to his trauma and trying his best to make it home.

Forget him, he told himself. Forget the star. Forget the whole stupid universe. I don't need it. I don't want it.

So he did. He dragged all the files out of his brain having to do with astronomy and outer space, crumpled up each sheet of paper individually, and set them all aflame. He watched them burn in his mind, the light from the fire almost illuminating his eyes outside of his imagination. Because that's how real it was.

He used to love the universe. It was something he felt like he could relate to. Empty yet important, and the only one around. He watched his knowledge about constellations slowly disappear. The Big Dipper. Jupiter's moons. The asteroid belt. Even bigger stars and even bigger black holes. The different shapes and formations of galaxies. Everything disappearing, being flushed out of his brain by his own suffering. He liked to watch it all burn.

That was the day Sherlock Holmes became a moth. That was the moment when fire became his magnet.

It was also the moment his heart formed a protective crust, expanding around the organ until his chest cavity was full of stone and thorns. He would never let himself hurt like this again. He would prevent it completely. He would not love.

And so the philophobe was reborn.


	6. In Order to Survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shark and Watson stumble across some Morse.

The man with the axe, for you are most likely wondering, was never the man behind it.

Only a fool would carry out their own order, especially if it involved killing another human being. That would make them known. A real, truly formidable leader should only involve themselves in the most important acts. Otherwise it'd be too dangerous, and someone could find them out and take them down.

James was a short man. Soft, innocent on the surface. He walked slowly, with a bit of an odd-looking limp, wearing clothing that either suggested he was half-dead or the most wealthy man on the planet (not that there's much of a difference). He had a small voice, a soft resting expression, and an extremely calm demeanour.

But, looking past the surface, scraping away the very top layer of the little smile, you'd find that he was anything but soft. The danger packed inside him was dense enough to get any person at all on his side. And, even more telling of this: his last name.

Because, if the name Moriarty doesn't immediately make you nervous, then explaining him would be absolutely pointless.

He had a weapon today. Both a literal and metaphorical one were gripped tightly in his dominant hand, and he hacked away at a wall as the sun just started to come up over the tops of the buildings around him. Beads of sweat dropped down his face, but he showed no signs of fatigue. In fact, he showed no signs of anything. His expression was always the same. Still, dead, emotionless. He didn't feel. It wasn't in his DNA.

Regardless, he was ready to intertwine his world with the world of Sherlock Holmes. It was time for the psychopath to meet the philophobe, and for their lives to clash together in an array of sparks and fire.

They both loved fire. They were both moths, in that sense. They had a lot in common.

How terribly exciting.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"So where, exactly, are we going?" John asks, following Shark down their quiet street for the second time today. There's no wind now, and the sun is extremely hot, belting down on them through the stagnant air. The sky itself would be sweating if it only could. It's not pleasant in the least. It's uncomfortable and sticky and dry. Shark is wearing his open-sleeved shirt again, his coat still back in the flat. He waits for John to catch up, walking next to him and replying with a casual shrug.

"Wherever we find ourselves being lead to," he replies. He's so cryptic. John can't stand it.

"Okay, but how will we find that out?" John asks. Why he can't just answer things like a normal person baffles him. It pisses him off a bit that he won't.

"Don't expect me to know everything, John," Shark replies with a sigh. "Just because I can tell anyone's life story doesn't mean in any way that I can telepathically know the exact placements of a teapot I've never seen."

John purses his lips. That's a good point. He's been one-upped by an ass. He can't let it stay that way.

So, with the false determination of a child trying to figure out how to fly, he dissects that last sentence in his head to try and find something to argue with. Unfortunately for his case, the verdict is uneventful, and he's left with only disappointment in himself.

Disappointment and raging curiosity.

"So you... You can tell the life story of anyone?" he asks.

Shark nods. "Just about everyone, more or less."

John breathes, and Shark interrupts the question he's about to ask.

"You want me to tell you what I see about you, don't you?" he asks almost condescendingly, and John feels the sudden need to defend his case.

"I'm..." He pauses. "...curious."

Shark stares him in the eye for a moment before taking a quick breath and firing off.

"I see a man with a history of psychosomatic problems relating to post-traumatic stress. You've got a uniform in your rucksack back at camp, meaning you're in some way connected to the military, and have been for long enough to be minimally aware of our economic and eco-systemic state, hence your being here instead of another country upon insisting not to come back to the UK like most people. You're tan on your hands and face, so you've been in a place with a lot of direct sunlight, likely in the Middle East or near the equator. This leads me to believe that you've been in either Afghanistan or Iraq for the past ten years at most. You have frequent nightmares about the war, and spend many nights almost completely sleepless. You've almost attempted suicide once, but considered it multiple times-"

"Okay," John interrupts. "Um, no need to go that far."

"Oh," Shark says, pausing awkwardly before slowly dragging out the word, "Okay."

"Just... Skip over it. I dunno."

"But I know either way."

"But you saying it makes it true to all the people that might be listening," John sighs. "And some things I like to pretend to only keep to myself."

Shark sighs. "John, once you crawl out from underneath your little naïve rock you'll find that nothing is ever private. There's always someone that knows something that you think nobody does." He gives him a sideways glance and shrugs, sick humour lighting his expression. "But it's not like you have an abundance of child pornography hidden away or anything - I mean, I'd hope you didn't - so I think you're safe for now." He gives John a dismissive slap to the back and turns a corner, leading them both to a new street.

John is quiet for a bit, staring down at his walking feet before finally admitting, "That was..."

Shark faces him. "Invasive. I know. People say that a lot. Unless you were going to say uncalled for or preposterous or stuck-up, which are all very common choices."

"Well, yes, but actually no," John replies. "It was all of those things, but, above all, that was fantastic."

Shark stares blankly ahead, blinking a bit faster than he usually does. His mouth twitches once, and John watches it. He observes all the intricate little movements he makes as he processes what was just said. If he didn't have the composed thought filter that he does, he would call it cute.

They walk along the road, their shoes crunching on the scattered gravel that departs from the abandoned pavement. John's mouth is dry and thirsty, and he imagines Shark is the same. The hot, dusty air definitely doesn't help, either.

The bricks in the building walls that they're passing are deteriorating, chipping apart and flaking to the ground. Everything seems to be turning to sand before their very eyes. God knows how long it'll take before they do, too.

John's eyes travel along those walls, knowing they must have looked so beautiful when they were kept up. Whitewashed and clean and neat, they would appear angelic if only people still cared. If only they could.

And that's when John Watson sees his first sign.

This hasn't crossed Shark's mind, but someone like John, unfamiliar with the culture of their lifestyle, will find every little thing shocking, even if it's been there since the beginning of the drought. So all the warning signs, no matter what they say, are a completely new concept. The sign is an artefact that'll help him understand his new world. Unbeknownst to him, it might also make him want to leave a bit more.

John does a little jog toward it, his flatmate waiting impatiently behind in the middle of the road. He leans closely to it, absorbing every word twice, and then finally makes a culturally accepted remark.

"What sort of rubbish pile of scraps is this?" he snarls, partially out of resentment but mostly out of complete confusion. He reads the sign again, this time out loud.

"All persons caught using vulgar or offensive terms of any kind will be rightfully executed on behalf of the United Kingdom. Civilians are advised to pretend they have a live television audience. This is ridiculous!"

Shark sets his jaw.

"Have you read this?" John rages. "This is a living disgrace! It's like... communism or something!"

The response is almost foreboding. "I know what it says, John."

"And they expect us all to follow this? How do they think it'd possibly work?" John shouts at it as if that will help their situation. He walks back to Shark and shakes his head. "The government is really at its peak performance."

"John, may I suggest moving on?"

"Do you think anyone oversees this? This is inhumane. It's restrictive as absolute h-"

Shark silences him with a glare.

John sighs, correcting himself. "Prison."

Shark continues walking, his eyes scanning the streets beneath their feet in search for anything to help find that stupid teapot.

John trots up behind him, doing a mixture of a skip and a jog until he catches up. "And I don't know why you take it so seriously. It's like you're defending the government without a second thought."

Shark rolls his eyes, masking his multiple emotions with a thick façade of annoyance. "I think I'm the experienced one here, John," he sighs. "If you think you know more about modern-day London even though you've only lived in it for two days, then go ahead and get yourself shot."

John scoffs. "There's no way people actually get shot. That's... That's just preposterous."

"Hopefully you're not willing to take any chances, though," Shark reasons, "because I'd advise taking extra measures for the sake of keeping yourself safe in contrast with going ahead and belting cuss words at the top of your lungs. Not all of the police are that good a shot from far away, either, so it'd take a long time to actually die on a normal day."

John crosses his arms. "I know how guns work."

Shark nods. "I'd hope."

"I've got a gunshot wound still," he continues. "It's a scar now, but I still know how it feels to get shot. I'm not oblivious to everything you tell me, you know."

"You also know how it feels to get treated and survive that shot because you had the resources for it," Shark counters. "Now, be quiet. We need to find this stupid relic and you're disrupting my thinking."

John looks around, trying to occupy himself with something to get his mind away from being, as he's been instructed to say, tiffed. He puts his hands into his pockets and paces across the street, back and forth as Shark inspects something on the wall he's next to. John kicks a few pieces of loose gravel, and he watches it bounce down the road until something hits him.

"Oh... no," he breathes, feeling around in his pocket. "Don't tell me I've lost it."

Shark whips his head around. "Lost what?"

John checks his other pockets, and then starts searching around, his eyes fixed on the ground. "My phone," he whispers. "I can't find my phone."

Shark drags himself up off the ground and sort of flops loosely to the side as he stands. "Oh, you've really done it now, Watson," he growls, looking around for it with him. "You're lucky I don't like eating people, because if I did..."

"Hypothetically speaking," John interrupts, "if the phone is gone for real, do I still get to stay at the flat or is the phone my only attribute to you?"

Shark is silent.

"Oh, lovely," John replies, taking that as a no. "Just wonderful. So you'll throw me back into the streets. We'd better find this thing then, or else I suppose I'll be..."

He trails off, his eyes latching onto the wall that they have previously passed. Up close, he had initially thought it just looked like chipping paint, but from a distance, it looks like it's been put there on purpose.

"Shark."

Reluctantly, Shark forces himself to reply. "Did you find it?"

John can only point to the wall. The paint on the bricks appears to be torn off, making a pattern. A pattern John knows.

-.-. --- -- . / .... .- ...- . / - . .- -.-.-- / -... .- .-. - .----. ... / .... --- ... .--. .. - .- .-.. --..-- / -- --- .-. --. ..- . .-.-.-

John's heart rate picks up a bit in his chest. Shark squints at it, scrunching up his nose.

"What am I supposed to see?"

John half-smiles, staring at it in disbelief. He looks over it two, then three more times just to make sure he isn't hallucinating,

"It's Morse."

Shark looks down at him.

Of course John knows morse, he realises. He was in the army. He learnt all that. So he can decipher anything you throw at him in the code. And that is very useful.

"What does it say?" he asks immediately, quietly, thinking about how to retract his sarcastic remark about hypothetically wanting to eat him. Not like he needs to; John has already forgotten their little spat. And, even if he hadn't, he's still too busy deciphering the message to care.

Finally, John answers. His first finger taps along to the dashes and dots as he reads the message aloud.

"Come have tea," he translates. "Bart's hospital, morgue."

John takes a satisfied breath, and then looks to Shark. His flatmate is looking down at him as if John is one of the most brilliant people on the planet. In his eyes, in that moment, perhaps he is.

They're stuck there for the longest time, Shark staring straight at him, and John almost physically unable to look away. What does he see in him? What's so interesting?

John doesn't know, but something is. There's something, somewhere, intertwined with what is. He just can't pinpoint it.

Simultaneously, Shark reassesses himself and realises that he was wrong about something: John Watson is not an average goldfish. He's somewhere between himself and everyone else. He's a middle tier. And this is new to Shark. It's interesting. It lights a curiosity deep inside his chest.

"So," John redirects. "The teapot."

"The teapot," Shark repeats, snapping out of his thoughts. "St. Bart's. How good are you at running?"

John scrunches up his face a bit. "Is running really necessary?"

"If we want to get there, back to Regent's Park and then back to camp before sundown, yes," Shark replies. "We could always acquire some bicycles again though."

John nods. "I think that's a much better idea."

Shark smirks, turning away and leading them in another direction. John starts to follow him, but then stops.

"What about my phone?" he asks. Shark turns around and smirks.

"Don't worry," he says, making it appear as he fishes it out of his shorts. "It fell out of your pocket so I thought it'd be better for me to keep it safe instead."

John's eyebrows set firmly into his face as he walks toward Shark. "Oh, you little..."

He stops though, because Shark's eyes have locked onto something behind John that he can't see. He's completely still, and so John copies him, instinctively knowing to do so.

Once he does this, both of them hear a faint bit of whistling.

It sounds rather distant, so John takes this time to turn around and see just what they're up against. What he sees isn't much of a conscious threat to him, but Shark's reaction to it makes him feel a bit uneasy.

It's a police officer. And he's heading their way.

Shark's voice is quiet, hushed and wavering, and he quickly shoves the phone back into his shorts. "They always find loitering suspicious," he whispers. "But they might also have heard what you said about the government." He casts a glance in John's way, fear making his eyes flint and his fingers shake. John stays still as the officer approaches.

"How much danger am I in," John whispers back, "if they heard?"

Shark swallows, looking distant. He doesn't respond, which is somehow extremely telling. John sighs in slight panic and tries to calm down.

The whistling stops, and so does the officer. He stands about two metres away from the two of them, narrowing his eyes and yelling across the street from were he stands.

"Oi," he calls, motioning to them with his hand. John senses Shark stiffen. "What's with you lot just standing about?"

Shark is too frozen to reply, so John thinks of the only excuse he can.

"We're actually lost," he replies. "We're, uh, going to meet a friend, but we can't find the location."

The officer snorts. "Lost! Nobody ever gets lost here."

John takes a breath. "That's because they're all dead, sir."

Shark, beside him, purses his lips and folds his shivering hands behind his back. If he weren't so terrified, he would be smirking now.

The officer, in contrast, isn't amused in the least.

"Well, get a move on, then," he snarls at them, and Shark finally gains enough composure to speak up.

"Do you know where St. Bartholomew's Hospital is, sir?" he asks. "It's very important."

"Why?" the officer asks. "What's the reason? What're you going to do there?" He's still a few metres away. It's like he's repelled, like they've got a bubble around them that he isn't able to pop.

John shrugs. "Nothing you'd need to involve yourself with, sir."

"No... drugs, or... scheming or anything?" the officer asks slowly, dragging out the words for extra effect.

Shark rolls his eyes, trying to come back to his natural self again. "If that were our plan, one would think we wouldn't want to tell you where we were going. Isn't that clever of an accusation, if you were to ask me."

The officer gives them a hard look-over, and then shrugs. "Well, get on, then," he says, motioning for them to start moving. "I hope you get un-lost."

"Uh, no," John interjects. "No, you don't."

"Sorry?" asks the officer. "Look, I'm being extra patient with people today, but the two of you blokes are really thinning it down." His voice is beginning to sound sinister. He stares them down.

John clears his throat, taking in a breath and hesitantly replying, "If you really did hope we found our way, then you'd help us get there."

Shark's eyes are exclusively watching John now. He studies every little thing about him as he stares the officer down. Nerves of steel is something he's just realised John is almost completely consisting of. That and reflexes, knowledge, and raw instinct. A true army man.

The police officer sets his jaw, his eyes narrowing and his patience hair-thin. "Well maybe," he mutters, beginning to turn the other way, "I don't care."

Shark can sense that John is dangerously close to saying something that could ruin - or, more likely, take away - his life, so he elbows him in the ribs and motions with his head to leave.

"Come now, John," he whispers. "We should leave." He grabs his arm and starts tugging him away.

"Have a good day, sir," John snarls at the officer as they turn the corner. Shark's grip is strong around his forearm, dragging him along and turning even another corner just to be safe. The whistling begins again, a bit more softly this time, and Shark leans down close to John and whispers as quietly as he can.

"St. Bart's is probably around two hours away if we walk," he says. "Maybe an hour and a half."

"Your point?" John asks distantly, his mind still fixed on his little spat with the police officer. He's only paying enough attention to get the gist of things.

"A bicycle would get us there much faster," Shark explains. "I saw a few around here recently."

John nods. "Okay."

They turn to begin to leave, but Shark stops again.

"A few more things," he says. "One: don't talk to the police force like that ever again."

John sighs. "Fine."

"Number two," he continues, looking at his shoes and trying to figure out what to say. "That, uh, that thing you did, when I was... silent. That was, um... good."

And, somehow, John understands that what he's saying is "Thank you."

He nods, smiling slightly at Shark before they both begin walking again.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The bicycles are matching. Not like that should matter, but they are. John finds it unique. And he likes the colours.

They're both a dark shade of gold, with two stripes - one black, one white - on the handlebars. They look hand-painted, or at leat painted by something that wasn't a machine. And they're fast, too. It only took them half an hour to get from where they were to their destination. Not like John knows the time. It just feels like half an hour.

They don't bother to park their stolen bikes. Instead, they bring them straight inside the building. John's a bit hesitant at first, nervous about the roof caving in, but then he reasons that it's more likely for the homes to crumble before the big, important buildings such as this one because they're not usually renovated as often.

They have to pry open the glass door with their hands, and Shark holds it open just in case as John wheels both of the bicycles inside, leaning them up against the wall. They both work at closing the door behind them, and then begin to navigate the building.

"We made extremely good time, Watson," Shark mentions, to which John merely nods.

"Mm," he hums in agreement. The lifts unsurprisingly don't work, so they take the stairs, Shark efficiently leading the way. His feet leave sandy footprints on each step, but everything inside is so dirty and worn-down that it doesn't seem to matter at all. Cleanliness is trivial when you live at the pinnacle of destruction. Shark's feet still trek along. One, two, one, two. It's like they've rehearsed this path a million times. They know the depth of each stair.

"Well, you're quick," John observes. "You come here often?"

"Only when necessary," comes the reply, echoing through the stairway. This building is eerily empty. John is surprised at its silence. He finds it astounding that it hasn't turned into a drug den by now. It's a great location. "I try to make the others go instead. I only come when they're sick of doing it themselves."

John furrows his brow. "Why do you need to send someone so often? Is this where you get your food?"

"No."

John waits for a more thorough explanation, but none arrive. "Oh," he says. "So what do you come here for, then?"

"Patience, John," Shark sighs. "You'll find out if you just wait. I'm not here to answer many questions, and it would help if you didn't constantly ask them like a curious seven-year-old that just discovered some book about the Titanic."

John presses his lips into a thin, irritated line. "You're not very sympathetic," he projects up to him, finding it hard to keep up with his short, inexperienced legs. "Do you understand that I am completely new to this little world? I know nothing about what's going on or where I stand or how to stay alive-"

"Did you ever see that film?" Shark interrupts, finally one climbing the stairs and going through a door to the current level. He holds the door open and walks in behind John.

John knows he shouldn't give in to the conversation. He was making a point and he shouldn't back down from it. But he does anyway, because he's too damn curious.

"What film?" he asks.

Shark leads him down the hall. "Titanic," he replies monotonously. "One of the very few films I've ever seen in a cinema. Multitudes of inaccuracies, though. I stopped going to see films after that."

"And why's that?" John asks.

"Because the first half of the film had a thing to do with the actual ship, John. It was all love, kissing, sex, cheesy lines, closeup shots of what's-his-name's face, repeat. Neither of those people even existed, did you know?" Shark says, not really answering the question. "It was all completely and utterly pointless."

John raises his eyebrows. "Answer my question."

"What question?" Shark asks casually.

John stares him down. Both of them know exactly what's going on, and exactly what he means. After realising this, Shark hesitantly sighs in defeat.

"Long story short," he sighs, "they kicked me out for yelling at the screen."

John doesn't even know whether or not to be surprised. "Is that something you do a lot?" he asks. "Give constant, testosterone-fuelled, angry commentary to films?"

They turn a corner, walking few a few doors that lead to a sort of skyway. Either that or a hall on the edge of the building. John can't really tell. There are only windows on one side, so it isn't too easy to know for sure.

"I wouldn't call it testosterone-fuelled," Shark argues.

"Well, let me tell you something," John counters. "It definitely wasn't fuelled by oestrogen."

"That's quite the black-and-white viewpoint, Watson. Perhaps it was driven by logic."

"If it were driven by logic," John replies, "then you wouldn't have raised your voice in a cinema, you absolute dingus."

Shark opens his mouth to object, but closes it again. There isn't much to argue against that.

They go through another few doors and reach a hall of slightly larger rooms labelled laboratories. John wonders silently how much longer they'll need to walk. His heels are starting to feel sore. He needs something to distract himself from it.

"So," he says, cycling back to his first question, "why, exactly, do you hate coming here so much?"

Shark slows to a stop in front of a door, knocking on it and waiting for a response. "You'll see in just a few seconds."

The door opens. Behind it is a very familiar-looking woman. Shark greets her with a nod.

"Hello, Hooper."

Oh. Hooper. The one with the leaf.

Hooper's face lights up at the sight of Shark, and she smiles, stepping aside to let him in. Instead of walking right through the door, however, Shark pulls John by the sleeve so Hooper can see him.

"This is my... friend," Shark says. "John Watson."

"Uh, colleague," John corrects, stepping forward and shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"And you," Hooper replies with a less enthusiastic smile. She's wearing lipstick, and John wonders where on earth she's possibly able to get it. "I'm Hooper. Molly Hooper."

Shark takes a deep breath and sighs, stepping into the room. John enters behind him, and is astonished by what he sees before him.

Plants. There are plants everywhere.

Trees, fruits, vegetables, flowers, and even carnivorous plants are thriving around him. John's mouth is agape as he looks around. There must be something like two hundred plants in this space alone. He wonders how many might be growing throughout the whole building.

"This is amazing," he marvels. "How do you get the water for this?"

"Oh, your colleague here figured that out," Hooper giggles uncomfortably. "He found this system where you put sand in the bottom of a bin and put a container in the middle of that-"

"Oh, don't be boring, Hooper," Shark sighs. "Were actually not here for plants or water today."

John, at this time, is going around and looking at all the different plants. There are tons of them. And maybe it's just another example of the placebo effect, but he could swear that the air smells better in here.

"Oh?" Molly asks, her voice getting slightly more squeaky. "Then who- what are you here for?"

John turns his head from its position near the maybe-illegal marijuana plant. Does Hooper have feelings for Shark? Not like he's surprised. It just explains a lot about why Shark never wants to come here. He begins looking around the room now, no longer at the multitudinous plant species but searching for the teapot.

"Has anyone happened to bring a teapot in here?" Shark asks. Hooper looks immediately dejected, and she nods slowly. John thinks he could see them together. Well, maybe he can't. Hooper deserves someone better than an arse like Shark.

"Yes. Over there, by the bean patch," Hooper says breathily, and then clears her throat. "I suppose it would make sense that it was the reason you wanted to come. Someone told me that it was yours."

"Oh?" asks Shark, his attention suddenly sparked as he takes the teapot in his right hand. "Who?"

Hooper smiles politely. "Said his name was Jim," she said. "Funny. I thought you knew him."

Shark scrunches up his face in thought. "No," he says. Whether or not it's a conscious choice, he tosses the teapot up in the air and catches it a few times, making John cringe as he almost drops the old relic. "But I'd like to, preferably in the next few months or so. It'd be lovely to know who was behind Soo Lin's mangled arm."

Hooper opens her mouth. "Mangled arm? Oh! The man that came in was... He mangled an arm?"

"I have a client, Hooper," Shark says, "and that's really all you need to know. Keeping it confidential is best for being professional. Professionalism is key, don't you think? Disregarding the world ending, of course." He opens the door, letting John leave first and beginning to step out behind him. Hooper doesn't answer. She knows anything Shark says is always rhetorical. Either that or he's too inconsiderate to listen for a response.

"Oh, um, one more thing, actually," she calls after him with a sudden rush of confidence, and he rolls his eyes before turning back.

"What is it?" he asks.

Hooper purses her already-thin lips into an even thinner line. "I was wondering..." she says slowly, "if you'd like to meet up. For... coffee or something." Her chest inflates a little faster, a clear sign of anxiety as she stares up at him. John feels suddenly uncomfortable, being in the middle of all this.

Shark blinks twice before replying, absentmindedly tossing the teapot between his two hands. "Hooper, I'm sure you're aware that coffee these days is extremely difficult to find." And with that, he turns back and leaves, letting the door swing shut behind them and Hooper sadly watch it do so.

John takes the teapot from Shark's hands, trusting himself a bit more with it. "You know," he says, "that wasn't very nice."

Shark turns his head to face him. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," John sort of chastises, cradling the clay pot like a young child against his belly. Shark says nothing.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Shark has been studying the note for a week.

He's turned it over in his hands, feeling the rough texture of the handmade paper, reading the words scratched into it with the reddish-brown ink. Soo Lin delivered it to them a few days back. She said it had been in the teapot after they returned it. She also said that her arm was healing quite nicely - no visible infection at all - and that John was a good doctor. She then laughed, turned briskly around, and left. Shark politely agreed with her statement and the two of them, stunned, watched her go.

John sits across from him in the room now, watching him study the paper over and over in the same routine he usually does. They're both silent, Shark squinting at it as John stares at him.

"You never told me what it says," he encourages, and Shark glances up at him, handing it over. John takes it carefully between his first two fingers and takes his turn with it.

My dear playmate,  
Hello! So glad to finally be able to meet you, though it may be indirect. I thought it was time to introduce myself. So, hey. My name's Jim. Jim Moriarty.

John looks up through his furrowed brow. "Is that all?" he asks. "That's really all there is?"

Shark nods. "Yes," he says. "It is."

"And you can't figure out what it is?"

Shark presses his lips into a tense, straight line and diverts his eyes.

"No."

John hands the letter to Shark, sitting back down in his seat and looking out the window.

"You will," he reassures him. Shark nods.

"I know."

They both just sit there for a very long time, feeding off of each others' silence. For a brief moment, John thinks they might stay like this forever, in an endless loop of bored confusion.

And then, like an answer to a prayer, the doorbell rings.


	7. No Rush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone explodes.

It's Soo Lin.

She looks eerily frightened, yet very composed as she flashes John a warm smile. "How are you doing?" she asks a bit slowly, and he doesn't know whether or not to answer the question.

"Uh, hello," he says, standing inside the doorframe, getting the slightest hunch not to let her in. She doesn't look just right. Something about her is just... off. "How are you?"

"Do not be alarmed," she says, her voice monotonous, pausing every once in a while as if she's listening to something. "This is just to get... your attention. I am only a pawn on the chess board." saying this, her lip quivers slightly. "There will be more. Hopefully you can try... to catch up."

Something is definitely wrong. John lifts his first finger as indication for her to pause, and turns to the stairs behind him, calling up for his flatmate.

"Shark!" he yells. "Will you get down here? Please?"

He turns back and signals for her to proceed. He's staying calm. He's good at doing that when necessary. It's one of his instinctive talents.

Soo Lin swallows and continues speaking. "Sadly, you can... do nothing to help me now. This is just... a show for you. Learn from it. Soak it in. More will come... later. Don't fear. It's all a normal act. It's Shakespeare on a dusty... bloody, dangerous stage." Her breath wavers, and Shark finally appears next to John.

"Now I am going to step back," she continues, "and you are not to follow. It is not your cue to exit the stage. But I tell... you now: everything is connected. That is all you need to... know."

John turns to Shark, having no idea whatsoever as to what's going on. Shark looks suspicious, and a bit shocked, and John feels absolutely the same. He turns back to Soo Lin, who has backed up away from them and stands across the street. She's crying now. John's anxiety is beginning to pick at him. He can't shake the feeling that one of them is about to die.

"Close your door," she instructs slowly, "and watch me from your upstairs window."

Nobody moves. John feels he is glued to the door itself, the soles of his feet nailed to the floor. Moving will be dangerous. But so will staying in place.

"Do it."

Finally, Shark pulls John back by the shoulder, giving Soo Lin a long look as he closes the door in front of them. They begin to walk up the stairs.

"What the hell was that?" John breathes. Shark looks down, his hands clenching into little fists to control his nerves.

"We'll find out in just a bit."

John swallows. "Shark?"

"Yes?"

"I..." he sighs, giving a small, forced chuckle. "I'm bloody terrified."

Shark doesn't reply as they make it to the top of the stairs, moving to the window and looking down. He leans up against it, and John squeezes in right in front of him so they both can see.

Soo Lin looks up at them, nods, and startles them both.

She is engulfed by a huge, sudden ball of flames.

It sounds like an explosion. It likely is, but John's too scared to be sure. Parts of her body have been splattered all over the surrounding area. He thinks he saw her hand hit the window.

And, as soon as it begins, it's over, and what's left is torn remnants of her body scattered all over the street, and a bloodstain on the outside of their windowpane. They probably won't even be able to clean it since it's still all boarded up.

John's heart pounds in his chest. Yet another explosion to add to the list of what he's seen.

Before he even knows what's happening, he turns and vomits all over the floor. When he's done, he curls up into a ball and sobs for the longest time. All the while, Shark is completely frozen in place. Neither of them move. There's no point.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

John's face is in his hands, his eyes squeezed shut. Somehow, he's on his chair now, and someone had been kind enough to clean up his puke. Whoever it was put a blanket over him, too. Likely Hudson; she was the kind of person who would do that straightaway without even a second thought.

Shark is pacing back and forth across the room now. John shifts in his seat and watches, trying to observe him to distract himself from what he's just witnessed.

His voice is quiet at first, but then he finds it. It's raspy and dead, but it's there.

"Shark?"

Shark snaps out of his daze and turns to him.

"John."

John swallows, wiping the wetness off his cheeks with the blanket that he's wrapped in. "How long was I... uh..."

"Two hours," Shark replies. "We got you cleaned up and looked after, so don't worry."

"Oh, God," John sighs. "I am so sorry."

Shark shakes his head. "It's a trigger, John," he sighs. "You can't help it."

"I could have at least helped clean up," he rebuts. "I could have-"

"Once you were even close to fully-functioning, it'd have all soaked into the floor," Shark says. "Just let it go. It's fine. I promise." He picks up his violin, plucking the strings with his fingers and leaving the bow in the corner.

John pauses. "I just... This is weird. I've never had a dissociative episode before."

Shark shrugs, plucking what sounds like God Save the Queen. "Trauma, shock, triggers, and PTSD are never a good combination. I'd expect someone with your background and lack of desensitisation in this failing world to have such a reaction."

John starts to get up, but Shark hurries over and pushes him back down in his seat. "Don't get up," he warns. "I don't want you to pass out."

"I'm only going to rinse out my mouth-"

"I'll get you something to wash the taste down. Just keep yourself seated," Shark orders softly. He gets a few glasses out of the cupboard, grabbing John's drawstring knapsack and opening it. "Look. We've still got this."

Shark pulls the almost-forgotten bottle of wine out of the bag and brings it over, pouring a bit in each of their glasses and handing one to John. "The alcohol will help calm you down, too."

John shakily takes the glass in his hands, tapping the edge lightly against Shark's and lifting it to his lips.

"For Soo Lin," he says, and Shark nods.

"Quite right."

Slowly, cautiously, both of them take a small sip of the wine. Their cups are raised in unison, the rare liquid flowing through their lips and over their tongues. John savours it for a long time, staring down at his glass as he swallows, smiling a bit.

"I'd forgotten what that tastes like," he says.

"As had I," Shark agrees. "It's heaven compared to all the canned salmon."

John laughs softly, his heart feeling just a bit lighter at that joke. "Preserved salmon, dust and sand are, I admit, starting to get boring," he agrees, and takes another sip. "This is probably the first thing I've tasted since stepping foot in Afghanistan that hasn't been engrained with sand."

"Even I'm full of sand now," Shark sighs. "I always feel it being encrusted into my skin."

"Yeah, forget diamonds," John adds. "I'd rather have a sand-studded ring."

"If you can even find a ring in the first place, you're luckier than Hudders herself," Shark smirks, still sipping the wine as slowly as he can in fear that it'll be gone too quickly. "That'd be one interesting wedding. Apocalypse-themed."

They both chuckle, John still shaking a bit but starting to feel better as he's distracted more. He starts wondering if people even bother getting married these days. Which brings him to another question.

"Have you got a girlfriend?" he asks suddenly. He must. A man like him is bound to have someone. Even now.

Shark sits back in his seat and shakes his head. "Uh, no," he replies. "Girlfriends... not really my area."

John thinks about that for a moment, and decides to rephrase the question. He takes another sip of wine and asks again.

"So, have you got a boyfriend, then?"

Shark does nothing except stare him down.

John is a bit awkward as he adds, "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

He isn't answering the question. It's a simple one, too. It won't hurt for him to simply reflect his relationship history, right? John does his signature annoyed smile.

"So you've got a boyfriend."

"No."

"Alright," John replies. Now they're getting somewhere. "Okay." Feeling the awkward hostility sinking in, he licks his lips and returns to drinking his wine. Forget I even asked.

Shark shifts in his seat. "I'm, um... I'm sort of married to my work, actually," he says, clearing his throat. "So, although I'm more than flattered by your interest, there are bigger things I need to focus on."

Wait, does he mean flattered by John's interest in his life? Or does he mean he's flattered by John's interest in him? John's a bit too scared to ask, so he lets it be and replies to what he's sure of.

"Yeah," he says. "Me, too. Romance would only get in the way of life, I think."

"Is that what you think?"

John shrugs. "Mostly."

"Hm," Shark replies. "I consider love a disadvantage, in contrast with your idea."

John raises his eyebrows. "Oh, why's that?"

Shark's bright eyes watch the wine as he swirls it around in his glass. "Because, once you get stuck in it," he says, "it takes over everything. All sense you've got is swept away, and then love ends. It always does. So you're left senseless and grieving and completely worthless. Love is only a human impulse; a distraction from all the things we want to avoid." He takes a somewhat staggering breath. "So call it what you will, but I find it completely and utterly debilitating."

John shakes his head. "Love doesn't always end," he says. "That's what marriage is for."

"Over sixty percent of marriages end in divorce, and the rates skyrocket even higher each year. Also, people die."

"Oh, take the stick out of your arse," John says with a roll of his eyes. "Love is good. It teaches you things. It makes you happier. Maybe, if you ever find someone, you'll understand."

Shark clenches his jaw and stares at the boarded window. He already does understand. Not like John will ever listen.

"John," he diverts, changing the subject. "Was it the explosion or the death aspect that triggered your episode?"

"Oh, um..." John clears his throat. "The explosion, I think. I'm usually fine with... bodies."

"So you're fine with going outside and seeing everything from Soo Lin's brain to her intestines strewn about?"

"I... guess?"

"Because we might have to investigate a few things later," Shark informs him, looking a bit absent. "Just making sure I won't have to leave you here alone while you're getting over your scare."

John nods, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself and finishing his wine. "Thank you."

"'Course."

In Shark's mind, this is what's going on:

Traffic.

All his thoughts are speeding through his head, colliding with others and making a hell of a lot of noise. The loudest ones, which matter the most, are these statements:

|1. Soo Lin was blown up.  
|2. She said herself that there would be more like this to come. (<\- so it's a serial killer?)  
|3. Whomever is behind it wants to get their attention.  
|4. Something along the lines of "everything is connected" was also stated.

These four thoughts collide together into a larger one, stating that they need to be prepared. They need to be ready and on the lookout. Because the person that's doing this will do more. They're ready and they're impatient and they're just waiting to cross paths. Shark tries to make the thoughts quiet down, but they won't. Volume never changes inside your head.

"We're going out," he says then, abruptly standing up and setting down his glass.

"Wait, hold on," John says as Shark heads for the stairs. "Why now?"

"To look for more messages, obviously. We can't stop murders from happening if we don't know where or when they'll be."

Shark looks at John for a few moments, waiting for an enthusiastic response, but is thrown off as John quietly replies with a sentence he was less-than-half-expecting.

"I... I think I'm gonna need to stay back," John says, his voice a bit whispery, his eyes looking almost shamefully down at his feet. "Now just isn't the best time."

Shark nods, doing his best to hide his slight disappointment. "You sure?"

John nods. "Sorry."

"That's... fine," Shark replies, hoping that was the polite, socially-acceptable response. He turns, awkwardly heading down the stairs. "Might want to look for me if I'm not back before dusk."

John nods. "'Kay."

Shark quickly slips his coat on, changes into some long, black trousers to protect himself from the cold, and heads down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson simultaneously makes her way up them. So, just as Shark temporarily slips out of John's little world, she invites herself into it.

"May I sit with you?" she asks.

John readjusts his blanket around himself. "Sure," he agrees. "I could use a bit of company."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Wind whips against his face as he trudges down the street. It's freezing, and he tries to cover as much of his own skin as he can with the extra pockets and folds of his coat. It's not even dark yet, and it won't be for another few hours still, but it's cold nevertheless. How unnecessary. How annoying. He can't remember ever wanting to live in a desert like this. But here he is.

It's a shame John didn't decide to come. John is useful, and oddly brilliant - just the kind of brilliant Shark needs - and he's still back at camp, huddled into a blanket, drinking wine and probably feeling all warm and cosy. If he were here now, he could decipher all the morse messages that this Jim bloke is leaving behind. Him not coming is just another inconvenience, because now Shark has to learn morse himself.

Yes, he's going to the nearest library, trying to find a book that's in-tact enough to teach him morse code, and then looking for more messages. And the library is an unpleasant distance away; the kind where getting a bicycle to get there would be almost pretentious, yet walking there would be almost equivalent to Hell itself. Not like he thinks Hell exists at all.

"Out of all the languages and codes I learnt," he mutters to himself, pulling his coat collar over his cheeks and nose, "why did I never bother learning morse? What a stupid mistake. Stupid."

Not only that, but he also went and learnt a whole bunch of military phrases, too. He knows things of the same class as morse. How could he forget such a vital language?

He pouts like a child, except you can't see it through the coat. The library is still relatively far away. He decides to run.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Is this wine?" Hudson asks, pointing to the bottle as she sits down. She knows the answer, but she still asks due to near-disbelief. "Where in God's name did you get that?"

John fiddles with the fringe on his blanket. "We, um..." He glances around, not exactly sure if he should expose the whole truth. "We found it."

They're both extremely quiet then, Hudson staring meaningfully at John and John staring blankly back. Finally everything hits him and he motions a bit too eagerly to the bottle.

"Oh, help yourself," he offers, and she smiles in thanks.

"You're too kind, John," she says. "I didn't even have to ask."

John chuckles uncomfortably, watching Hudson pour herself a mug of it and sit in Shark's chair. "Yeah..."

Hudson drinks it incredibly slowly, smiling into the cup as she does. "You know," she finally says, "the last time I had wine like this was back in '99." John doesn't sense it, but this is a transition into a very long story that'll make him feel like an arsehole for only half-listening to.

All John can muster is an occasional "yeah" or "wow" whenever the fluctuations in Hudson's voice seem to become intense. As this occurs, he stares out the window, watching dead leaves rustle by and the occasional crow glide down and pick at Soo Lin's remains.

"And that was even before I knew about the other women!" Hudson exclaims, and John, not knowing any of the context but suddenly invested in that sentence anyway, turns to her and slightly drops his jaw.

"No," he responds, and she nods sullenly.

"So I told him myself, 'Frank, if I'm going to be dealing the drugs for you, you need to at least give me loyalty in return.' You know what he did then?" She refills her mug and keeps going. "He started doing all the deals himself! I worked for him for years and he would have rather done all that work himself than be exclusively with me."

John shakes his head. "That's terrible."

"So I told him, 'It's the turn of the century, Frank! It's a new age! Leave all those women behind in the old one!' I'm still very proud of that statement, but it really didn't do much," Hudson sighs. "He didn't care that I knew about the prostitutes and the whiskey and the cocaine. He only cared about coming home to a clean house and a prepared dinner that he'd only end up regurgitating later."

"Well, what happened to him?" John asks. "He obviously isn't here."

"And thank heavens for that!" Hudson adds. "I'd go insane if he still lived downstairs. I'd have to book a hotel. Even the thought of sleeping next to that wretched old thing..." She cringes and shakes her head violently, as if tossing him out of her unruly hairdo.

John pauses, looking her in the eye and subconsciously holding his breath. "You didn't eat him, did you?"

Hudson only laughs at that, calming John down momentarily. "Of course not!" she chortles. "We only fed him to the cops. We waited for some to come patrolling by, and then put a knife in his hands and threw him outside. They took it as a threat, and took care of everything pretty much immediately."

That certainly isn't very comforting for John to hear, so he pours himself another glass of wine to wash down the fear he's associated this lady with.

"So what did you do when he was taken care of?" he asks, and Hudson takes one big breath before firing off once more.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Shark looks down at the dusty and torn page beneath him.

S = . . .  
O = - - -  
...---... = distress signal, SOS. Sign of emergency.

"Stupid," he mutters to himself. "If you need help, there's no problem in saying it aloud."

He's pretty sure he has the whole alphabet down now. He's made a whole chart in his head, too, placing each individual letter and its corresponding dot-and-dash combination into their own files. He keeps these files in a bookcase inside his mind, ordering them alphabetically and storing them away. This should be fairly easy, as long as the rest of the clues are actually in morse.

Stepping out of the front door of the library and making sure to put the boards back across it, Shark conveniently notices his first clue. It's not in morse; its in plain English, scratched into the dusty ground by his feet.

That was a waste of time.

Shark grinds his front teeth as he reads this, noticing a line connecting the phrase to another one about a metre away.

Try to catch up now.

The line stops, leading to no more clues. But that's when he hears it.

Another bomb.

The noise is unmistakeable. It doesn't sound like a gun and it doesn't sound like fireworks. He knows for sure its the same noise he heard just this morning. There's no mismatching it.

It's a smaller bomb than the last one, he can hear. And it's very close, too. Following the echoes around the corner, Shark finds the next victim scattered in the street.

He shouldn't have approached so quickly.

The sight is terrible. And this is far different from Soo Lin. When he saw her remains they were already dried up in the sun. They were old. But these are new. Veins still twitching, nerves shutting down, causing detached fingers to move on their own. Blood seeps out of what seems like... everything.

Shark's gag reflex is triggered, and he doubles over and tries to regain composure, his hand covering his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. When he opens them, he sees another message on the ground.

Too late.

If he didn't know better, Shark would scream and cuss and run off. But he doesn't. He gets up, silently reminding himself to forget the body and just look straight ahead. Just focus on the road. Just look straight ahead.

So he does. Forcing his eyes to glue themselves to the end of the street, Shark mindfully steps over the torn flesh and makes his way there. He stops halfway, though, his shoes sinking into the blood. His eyes dart from his destination to a spot just next to it.

He sees a human silhouette.

It's a man, from what he can tell. Either a young one or a short one. He's leaning against the wall, distantly staring out into the street. He then turns the corner and disappears.

Shark begins to run again. This time, however, he's not aiming for a place. He's aiming for a person. He's so close. He just needs to catch up.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Hudson, after a few hours, finally stops her yapping. John is feeling better now, staring out at the setting sun and feeling somewhat better. His shaking has died down, and his mouth still tastes like the wine.

"Getting dark," Hudson observes. "Where did he say he'd gone again? Usually he's back by now..."

John suddenly is reminded that Shark is out in the streets. What did he tell him earlier? To try to come and find him if he isn't back by dusk?

"I'll give him five minutes," he says. "If he isn't back by then, I'll go try and bring him back myself." He proclaims it with an incredible amount of confidence, but the back of his mind is still overflowing with terror. Maybe he was taken by someone. Maybe someone ate him. Maybe he swore and got shot.

Maybe Shark was blown up, too.

"No," John decides. "I'm going out now."

He stands up, his heart beginning to pick up speed in his chest again. Taking a deep breath and telling himself that he's survived much worse (and only half-believing it), John Watson takes a coat and an extra pair of trousers, heading downstairs and rushing out the door.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

How to catch a moth, in three simple steps:

1\. Locate the moth. That's the easy part. All you need to do is keep your eyes fixed on the first one you see.

2\. Find a light. Moths love light. They can't keep themselves away from it. They'll go as far as to burn themselves alive, and they won't even notice. The magnetic field is too strong for them to leave.

3\. Wait.

—

Jim knows this. He's studied little things such as moths since he was just a little boy. He used to laugh, watching them burn all their delicate legs on the outside of lanterns. He knows them so well.

Therefore, you are always safe to bet that James Moriarty knows a moth when he sees one.

And he's found one, too. He's known about him forever, of course, but he hasn't thought of catching him until just recently, when the rain stopped and, as a result, he stopped having fun things to do. But he's found one now. Just like the old days.

He's going to catch Sherlock Holmes and trap him in a jar.

All he needs is a light.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Be safe, John!" Hudson calls out after him. "He's lost one like you before. I'd hate to see him grieve again. You know, he even uses sometimes. Has to go down to the underground to get it."

"Yeah," John replies, not really processing what she's saying for a while. The sky is dark now, an unsettling, staticky grey, and he feels oddly claustrophobic beneath it. Like it could crumble down and crush him at any given moment, relentless, unforgiving, heavy. But that's stupid, because the sky can't fall. He feels stupid for thinking it might.

And, finally, Hudson's statement echoes through his mind again, and a certain part sparks his attention. He turns back around, furrowing his brow and taking a deep breath. It almost hurts to breathe this air. It's like he has to try extra hard to take it in.

"What do you mean he's lost someone before?" John asks, but the door is already closed. He nods defiantly at it, straightens out his borrowed winter coat with a tug at the bottom of it, and begins walking. He doesn't know where he's going. Not that all. He just hopes he'll bump into Shark on the way.

One would expect to see the stars here. At least John does as he looks up at the dirty, dirt-scrubbed clouds and the faint glow of the ever-fading moon. But he can't. Not really. Even though the light pollution is gone with the electricity, air pollution is still very present, and it casts a thick blanket between him and everything above his head.

He can, actually, see about five or six especially bright stars. But, to him, that barely counts.

Sighing and looking back down at the ground, John shuffles his feet and walks slowly down what used to be Baker Street. He's quite close to the end of it when he hears hurried footsteps and turns around.

Seeing the figure moving towards him, he feels paranoid.

What if it isn't him? he wonders. What if I'm in trouble?

But, once it comes closer and he's able to make out a tangled silhouette of curly hair and the collar of a long coat, John is sure it's Shark he's looking at. And it's good this way. He doesn't have to risk getting cold and lost now.

"Shark!" he calls out as the shadow inches toward him with a briskness to its tall step. "Where on earth have you been all this time? We were expecting you back much earlier."

His heart beats a bit faster as he sees him. Both relief and excitement trickle through him as he approaches his new friend. "I was - I mean, we were starting to get worried."

But he's greeted with no response. Shark pulls out a large object from his pocket, and before John has the chance to realise what's happening, he's been hit in the head and knocked out cold. The last thing he feels is his body falling, and being caught by two unusually small, gloved hands.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

He's been chasing him for miles. The shadow named Jim. And he desperately wants to catch it.

How do you catch a shadow?

There must be, Shark concurs, some sort of scientific way to do it. Some sort of holographic sequence of lights to take one and keep it where it stands. It would only make sense if it was possible. But it's hard to know. Because, regardless of if it is or not, spending money on such an experiment would be a terrible waste. What a stupid thing to experiment.

He wishes he could take the shadow and pin it to the wall like he does with all his maps. Then it wouldn't be so hard to reach him. And then he could look him over and pick him apart and see what's really going on inside his head.

Perhaps Jim isn't really a shadow. Maybe he's just a little flame; a match that's hard to see because everyone else is so bright.

"Stop!" Shark hears himself calling as he sprints toward the running silhouette. "I can't run forever."

The figure slows, turning left through the side door of a building and disappearing inside. Shark stops about twenty yards back, leaning over to catch his breath. He can taste blood in the back of his throat. His ribs hurt. Everything hurts. He shouldn't have run.

He forces himself to walk through the discomfort, gasping and feeling that his lungs can never be full enough. He makes it to the door and, slowly yet surely, makes his way inside.

It's completely dark in there, obviously. If there were ever electricity in a building Shark would, undoubtedly, be the first to know. His eyes adjust to the even darker state, though, and even though he can't see much, he can see just enough to know this:

-he is standing next to a pool.  
-said pool is full of dirty, old water. Buckets near it suggest people have tried drinking it. Stupid idea. Chlorine and dirt won't take long to make someone sick.  
-Jim is nowhere to be found.

Cautiously, Shark steps into the room, scanning it in search of anything he can use in defence. Scanning it for safety. Scanning it for exits. Scanning it for Jim.

Whatever the point is for all this, At least he had the opportunity to learn morse. It could be useful whenever he least expects it.

His thoughts are disrupted by a clatter behind him, and he whips his body around to face it.

It was nothing, apparently. Just something falling. Nothing.

He sighs, desperately trying to control his hidden anxiety as he turns back to the sound of shuffling feet.

He sees them on the floor in front of him. His eyes travel up the legs and to the face, his heart leaping inside his hollow chest.

And then it stops.

All he's known since 29th January last month is immediately crumbled into pieces and washed away. His face goes pale as he realises the the short man he was chasing isn't a new acquaintance at all. Not a Jim that he hasn't met before.

Shark swallows and feels betrayal slap him sharply in the face as he stares into the eyes of the one person he's been scared of all along.

John Watson.


	8. Ethics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melodrama, basically.

Betrayal.

It's a word tick on the tongue, an emotion engrained into his head, a saying often on his lips. John has been betrayed.

He stares up at Shark. He had trusted him all this time, and now he's here. Not to mention that now he has the slightest suspicion he's about to be fed to a serial killer.

His nose twitches, his head still a bit foggy from being knocked out. "How could you do such a thing?"

Shark's expression darkens just a bit. "Me?" he asks. "You led me here. You were the one I've been trying to track down this whole time."

"You were the one that brought me here. You knocked me out. You dragged my body here to what seems like my own imminent death," John growls. "No wonder you didn't want me to know your real name."

Shark narrows his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

The room seems to darken even more, if possible. Both their eyes are adjusting to the light now, though, yet it still seems like the nothingness might swallow them up. Maybe it already has. It's hard to tell.

"You knocked me out," John restates. "I saw you."

Shark shakes his head, his eyes looking less angry and more confused. "No, you didn't," he says. "Now is the first time I've seen you since I left."

He's seen John in his mind, though. He's imagined him sitting unconscious on that bloody stupid lawn chair by the fire. The one night where all this started and this whole situation would have been easily avoided if he hadn't let the phone sway his decision on whether or not to keep him. Truth be told, John's glowing eyes had a bit to do with the verdict, too. Being swayed by eyes is always, Shark is aware, a fatally red flag.

In this situation, every little thing about John Watson is red. The complete embodiment of his spirit - if those even exist - is probably emanating the colour. It's just too bright, too bold for him to turn away. It's interesting, reeling and luring him in as if he's a braindead goldfish. That stupid, bright, glowing red lure. If only he had paid attention to the colour before chasing after it. Shit.

"Oh, really?" John asks, forcing Shark back into the here-and-now. His voice is quiet now, whispering. This happens to him when he's feeling dangerous. "Because I'm sure it isn't possible for a lookalike to know who we are, where I am, and what you wear. I even saw your coat." His breath is making little puffs in the cold air as he stares Shark in the eye. Explain that, he thinks. I dare you.

Shark swallows, stepping back and standing up straight. His eyes look around the room for anything to help him understand what the living hell is going on. John grits his teeth and continues speaking.

"So you're expecting me to believe that I imagined the whole thing about you knocking me out and abducting me from my own home?" he asks. "You really think I'm that stupid?" I saw your coat. It was the same damn coat.

Shark suddenly doesn't feel suspicious of John anymore. He turns his gaze back to him, looking him up and down and retorting, "You think I would be stupid enough to go through all the trouble of knocking you out and dragging you to a random location instead of just tricking you into coming with me?"

They stare at each other, both of their hearts pounding with anger and fear and confusion. And then John doesn't feel so confident in his accusations anymore.

"I know it isn't completely socially acceptable to say it," Shark adds, to which John has to physically force himself not to reply with something dangerously crude, such as 'that's a fucking first', "but I'm certainly clever enough to just convince you to follow me here."

As John starts coming to terms with reality, he begins taking in the room around them. There's a pool. He's got no idea why anyone would bring someone to a pool these days. To drown them? It'd be a bit difficult to drown someone in one of those, though. There's so much room to escape.

He looks back at Shark. He's known him for a month or so. He can see what he's feeling by his face. Looking at him now, John can tell that this current face is an uneasy, unconfident one. It's masked by a layer of irritation, but it's there. This makes him a bit less suspicious. But it's hard for him to abandon what he saw with his own eyes. The coat. The hair. Even the darkened outlines of his kidnapper's face belonged to Shark. The nose. The chin. The cheekbones. It was all there.

Maybe, if you asked him, he would mention the fluttering little wings as well, brown and patterned and elegant on his back. But he only ever saw that in his head. It must be the dirty air fogging up his mind in such a way.

"If it wasn't you," John asks, "then who, exactly, are we up against?"

Shark says nothing. Truth be told, he isn't sure anymore. It could be anybody posing as anyone else. That hasn't exactly crossed his mind until now.

And then, though it's extremely quiet, there's a deafening, innocent click.

John knows that click. They both do. They've both met it in person, stared it in the face, and watched it kill someone important behind them as it shook their hands.

And John freezes. The sound has consumed him, replaying on a loop until it feels like he can't breathe. The weight on his shoulders feels slightly more significant, like he's in his army gear again. It's first-aid handing from his neck. He can hear the screams and moans, and everything is heavy and lonely and terrifying. Like he's defending his post because he's the last person left to defend anything at all and he could die and there's one bullet left-

But it hits his shoulder instead of where it should.

John opens his eyes to find his body exactly where he left it: standing by the pool. His fingernails are digging into his own palms. This is his way of stopping the flashbacks from becoming real. It's his way of bringing himself back. There's always a little moon-shaped bruise in either palm for that reason alone. No time seems to have passed at all. In fact, Shark has only just turned his head to the sound.

John's shoulders are still heavy. He wants to sink into the floor. And he's scared. That click was unmistakably a handgun, and there isn't any escaping one of those when every hospital in England is torn to shreds and left in shambles in the middle of a dry patch of dirt.

John's pulse is heavy and relentless in his hand, the beat pounding all the way from his ears to the meat of his thumb. So Shark is innocent, after all. He sure as hell isn't holding the gun. Unless he brought me here for someone else to shoot?

But he doesn't want to entertain that possibility much longer. He needs to address the situation at hand: there's a gun in this room and he may be the target.

Shark looks small as he slowly turns in a circle, surveying the room. "Hello?" he calls into it. "Show yourself."

His only reply is his own echo reverberating off of the surface of the concrete-and-tile walls.

And then an answer. It's quiet, formidable, like it's hiding behind an innocent sound to make the situation seem less shitty than it is. To make the person in charge of all this seem like a little angel.

"Utter one more unwanted noise and I shoot both of you. Don't worry, though; I'm a terribly good shot."

Shark's hands immediately go up behind his head. John's do not. He learned this from the army. It's only habit for him to not put his hands in the air unless he's specifically asked to. He was trained to tense up in these situations rather than surrender, and so he keeps his hands shoved into the pockets of his borrowed winter jacket, where they were before and have been this whole time. He feels like sitting down. Or maybe taking off his coat. He feels heavy and scared, and that's all there is. Terrifying, petrifying weight.

And, suddenly:

"Shark, is it now?"

Shark whips to face the direction from which the voice is coming. "Yes," he says, hoping his reply counts as wanted noise. "It is. I am."

"Odd, that little goldfish analogy of yours," comes the voice. "Makes me wonder how many of your little fish are actually dolphins in disguise. Dolphins are quite smart, you know, playing with their own bubbles, confusing those other sea animals around them."

Shark sets his jaw. He recognises this tactic. He's used it himself. The man in the shadows is trying to turn them against each other again. "One can imagine," he answers neutrally, his muscles tensing up.

There's a breath of dysfunctional amusement, and then a question that sounds like it's being formed and moulded through the soft shape of an upturned smirk.

"Are you familiar with hot chocolate, Shark?"

Shark is hesitant to answer, his eye twitching a few times as he desperately attempts to take hold on all his nerves and pin them down. But a response isn't needed, for the man continues to speak anyway. John tries to readjust his shoulders, still feeling rather weighted. He freezes in his place as the next sentence echoes through the cold, dead room.

"Hot chocolate is interesting," he thinks aloud. "You can stir it and stir it all you like, but it never really blends until everything gets heated up."

Shark can't pinpoint the source of the voice. The room is so ambient, the reverb so strong, that he can't tell where anything is coming from. Even his own thoughts seem to bounce off those walls as they cycle round in his silly old head. He turns back to John, who looks even more distressed than Shark feels, eyes cold and blinking, and blinking, and blinking.

"I've been stirring this since I was, oh, I don't know, eight? I've been trying to mix everything together and make you drink it. I wanted to see how you'd react. But what I didn't know," he rambles, taking a small, dramatic pause in the name of adding dynamic to his own speech, "was that all we needed for it to get going was a flame."

John is still blinking like that. Rapid, patterned, rehearsed. Shark, starting to furrow his brow in slight suspicion, crinkles his nose and looks back at him. What's wrong? Why's he being like this?

"You and I are the same," the voice coos. It's a soothing voice, Irish, too, and it flows around their feet like soft oil. Like the pool is full of it, and every new word makes it flood a little higher. "We're both disgusting little insects, Shark. Drawn to some stupid old planet in the sky. Like Icarus, in a way. Just we haven't flown too close to it yet."

Three quick blinks. Three slow ones. Three quick ones. A pause. Repeat.

Shark maps it out in his head. Morse? Could it possibly be Morse?

Only half-attentive to the words silkily wrapping around his legs, he searches his files.

... --- ... / ... --- ... / ... --- ...

John keeps repeating it. It must mean something. Why didn't I memorise the letters thoroughly enough to have the information on hand? Why can't I just know the right things? God.

"We're drawn to it because we don't have it. We have no light. We're empty, dead things. It's too easy for us to get cold."

Three dots. What the hell does three dots match up to?

"But it looks like you finally found a little flame. Found something to warm us up. To stir the little cauldron."

John's hands aren't in his pockets anymore. They were in his pockets before. Why aren't they in his pockets?

They're both gripping the sides of his coat, pulling it open a bit from the zipper, exposing his shirt underneath. Shark squints as the shirt. It's black. He could have sworn John wore a white shirt today.

The voice rattles one more time.

"Too bad I'm going to blow him up."

All the little buttons scattered in Shark's head snap together instantaneously. The coat. The blinking. What he'd read in the library earlier.

... = S

\--- = O

He can't stop himself from whispering it. This time, replacement words don't even cross his mind.

"Shit."

S-O-S.

That's what John has been blinking. And his black shirt isn't a shirt at all. It's shiny, full of little reflective lights. He sees that now. And now he can tell what it is.

John is strapped inside a jacket, and the jacket is full of bombs.

"I'm so glad I finally got to run into you, Shark," says the voice. "Let's just hope you don't change your name again so it'll be easier to find you next time."

Shark twists around in tight circles, searching for him. "Show yourself," he says, his hands finally down from behind his head. "Who are you? I want to see where you are." It's so dark that it'd be hard to spot him even if he did appear, but Shark wants to see him nonetheless. He needs to.

"Oh, you know who I am," the voice assures him. "I've been trying to get closer to you all my life so I could reach out and pluck you into it. I've hidden behind costumes, accents, characters, but there were just too many setbacks. I even got shot once. That was no fun."

His voice is somehow playful, the fluctuations sounding a few levels too enthusiastic about all this. There are a few muffled footsteps from behind Shark as the man steps out into the room. His shoes, classy and still shined, reflect the dim, stained light from the open door as he almost waltzes in their direction. Shark can feel him creeping up slowly, each step bringing him closer to all his arteries, his neck, his head, John.

"Look," Shark whispers, his voice weak and strained, his breath seeming to not come fast enough. "I don't know who you are or what you're after, but please, please don't hurt-"

"Don't hurt John," scoffs the man. "I hear that far too often. Don't hurt my wife! Don't kill my boyfriend! Don't scrape my little goldfish pet."

He spits the word. Pet. His lips throw it at Shark's shoes. It's a slur against the petrified soldier, standing and staring at Shark, who stares back in hidden, unrecognisable terror.

"Thing is, I don't listen to people," he continues. "And I'm getting revenge these days. It's my new hobby."

Shark knows he's supposed to ask a follow-up question by the way the sentence was dropped, so he takes a breath and does.

"Getting revenge for what?"

Luckily enough, he sounds a lot more confident than he feels in the pit of his stomach. He feels dangerous breath on his neck as the lips belonging to the voice lean into his ear.

"When I was shot," he explains, "I was left alone to die. I survived, but it was painful being all alone. It was part of the game, Shark, but it added an extra layer of difficulty. A new objective. A new class of playing."

Shark swallows, keeping his eyes on John. He keeps them locked there. He can't lose a person again. Not one in his sight.

"And how, exactly, does this concern me?" he asks. He hasn't hurt a soul on purpose before. There's really no reason for anyone wanting vengeance on him. John stares, frozen, at him, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide and unsure. Shark has put him through too much today. He knows this. John deserves better than to have war flashbacks every few hours.

The man chuckles softly, backing away from Shark and letting out a long breath. "Maybe it would help," he says, suddenly using a flawless Londoner accent, "if you turned around."

Shark suddenly feels iron and dread in his abdomen. It's heavy and dense, pinning his feet to the tile floor. Because he recognises that voice. He knows that dialect.

You have to turn around, he chastises himself. You have no choice.

So, the bottoms of his shoes sweeping the floor as he does, Shark moves to face the voice. His eyes stay on the floor in fear that they might not want to see what's there.

"Look up, Shark," comes the familiar voice again. "It's your favourite star."

Shark doesn't. He won't let it be true.

"Oh, come on," the enemy groans. "Don't make this so boring. Both of us hate boring things like this."

Shark takes a shaky breath.

"Before I do," he asks softly, his gaze still fixed on his feet. "What's your name?"

The voice changes back to its initial Irish accent. "Jim Moriarty," it introduces itself. "Your playmate."

Slowly, ever so hesitantly, Shark's eyes move up.

He sees exactly what he's scared of.

There, in between the deafening sound of all the mixed emotions and stress and chaos, a face stares at Shark with a numb intensity only able to be made by something dead. And the face should be dead, too. It should be decomposing at the bottom of the Thames. But it isn't.

Staring him in the eyes is the one person he's been missing the most. Staring him in the eyes, in the flesh, is who he used to know as Theo.


	9. Tell Me That I Made You Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally just drama. I swear. Nothing else.

For the longest time, he's stuck there, his mouth hanging open, the hinge on his jaw missing the pin. If he had one on hand, he'd light a cigarette. That'd help calm his nerves and numb all the flashing, italic emotions tossing themselves carelessly around his head, displayed halfheartedly on a bright neon sign. Those are funny things, emotions. Unnecessary. Annoying. So utterly and inexplicably intrusive, showing up in amicable tuxedos and affable smiles, only to end up looking through your bedroom and causing a scene.

Too personal, Shark decides, for the likes of him.

Yet he's stuck to them, bound against their bodies with his own string. He wants to set himself free, and sometimes he thinks he has. But then another one of those small, endless strands always seems to mend itself. They're so sticky, too. Like little spiderwebs. Moth-catching material. No wonder it's such a problem.

If his heart were a void, maybe it would be easier. He never admits it, but his heart is very full. Full of people and places and memories and music, all attached to one of those pesky little strings. He can't escape them. Even his violin has them, strung taut across the neck, vibrating against the bow. He just can't detach himself, no matter how much he wishes he could.

One of the thicker strings all this time, though - the one with the deepest frequency - has been Theo's string. It was the string of a cello once, soothingly ebbing in and out regardless of whether or not it was invited.

And now it's snapped.

Because Theo never really existed.

It was all a lie, a ruse, an inconvenient falsity. Theo was only a costume, and Jim was his host. His cast. His cosplayer. And he wore him bloody well.

"Shame," Jim says softly, his gun still aimed and pointed right at John's chest. "I was hoping that maybe you'd catch up to the pattern. I thought protecting John would be the first thing on your mind. He's so helpless, you know. So sad and broken and fragile. I don't even have to do anything to hurt him. He's already so... sentimental. Amazing what average little brains can do."

Shark's jaw stiffens, his eyes flickering between the man he used to know and the man he hopes he still does. He used to be like John in that sense. He used to be predictable and lucid and a completely hopeless romantic. But all that was taken from him when Theo was. He doesn't want to take that away from John. Things back then were so carefree, so wild and exciting. Out of all people that should deserve to keep that feeling, John is definitely the first contender.

The problem, though, is that he's strapped to a bomb. Shark shouldn't be worrying about taking innocence away from him if the problem at hand is the possibility that John could be taken away from his innocence - and everything relating to life itself - with the simple pull of a trigger.

His eyes dart around the room for any sharp, blunt object he could use. He finds nothing at all.

He decides it's time for tactic number two. Plan B, if you will. Straightening out his spine and trying to stand like his brother would, his head tilted upward in a snobbish reminder of status, Shark gathers the courage and breath to speak.

"You can't fire a gun in here."

Jim lifts his eyebrows. Shark's body seems to have been torn in half. He feels like it is, looking at him. He hates this. Love is so stupid and pointless and you can't trust it, yet he fell into its grasp nonetheless. He can't do that again.

And, though it pains him, he needs to put Theo behind him. He needs to forget all this and focus on the problem he's dealing with right now. The problem that's actually threatening.

"And why is it..." Jim asks slowly, his natural accent thick against his throat, soothing and terrifying, an oxymoron in itself. "Why is it that I can't fire a gun in here? What brings you to the conclusion that I won't?"

Shark hopes this works. And, if it doesn't, at least he'll stall him a bit.

"You know why you can't," he says. "We're surrounded by water. A bullet from that particular gun is fired at the perfect speed to easily ricochet off of any liquid surface if the target is missed. You could injure yourself. It could bounce back and hit you right in the middle of your forehead. I'm sure you learnt that when being taught how to use a gun?"

Jim gasps dramatically, his mouth dropping to his collarbone. "What?" he whispers. "That never even crossed my mind! How stupid of me." His gun, though, stays perfectly aimed at John's chest. Shark scans his facial expressions, finding nothing useful at all except for the slightest hint of sarcasm. He looks dead, otherwise. It's terrible. He's terrible. He isn't Theo.

Shark, forcing himself to keep his composure by his side, stares Jim in the face as Jim stares at John.

"Lower the gun, then."

Jim scoffs, rolling his eyes and swinging his free arm in melodramatic boredom. "Oh, come on, Shark. Thrilling that you thought ricochets hadn't crossed my mind before bringing you here. Absolutely thrilling." There's another click of the gun, and Shark pinpoints this as him taking the safety off. "Has it crossed your mind that, if I don't miss, I'll be blown up by this little bomb anyway? If I were concerned about my own death, then I would have done a bit better of a job planning, don't you think?" He smirks, almost huffing in amusement. This is fun. He loves debate.

"Not if you're a good shot," Shark disagrees, beginning to internally panic now that the gun's safety is off. One wrong move and they'll all be blown to bits. All that needs to happen is for the trigger to be pulled just enough. He's grasping at good argument points now, just to keep this from happening. Just to slow everything down so he can have time to think. "You could easily shoot us from outside, through the door or a window. You could kill us at a distance just safe enough where you'll get out with a scratch or two."

Jim shrugs. "I could," he agrees, "but then why am I in here now? Why didn't I just get it over with once you two were inside? Hmm?"

Shark feels his mind spinning too quickly. So fast that, soon enough, everything will start to fling off of it. He's so close to losing. And this time, it's different. This time, losing is fatal. Fatal for himself, for John and for Jim Moriarty. Fatal in the least figurative sense possible.

Shark feels cornered now, like he's trapped in a corner where he hasn't been before. Even his wits can't get them all out of this. Because Jim, it seems, is even more clever. He's always three steps ahead of Shark. He'd be good at playing chess, if only he used his brains for innocent things like that.

It's come to the point where now Shark has accepting that he's going to be blown to bits. He's telling himself that it's better this way. That it's better than a bullet to the stomach or a disease or starvation. It's better than being killed in the street or eaten alive or dying of dehydration. Because it's fast, efficient, and not even your remains do much surviving.

And it will be better for the world if he dies.

Because who needs someone like Shark? All he's doing is taking up space and time and food, walking around and pretending he's so much cooler than he actually is. He's not kind or caring or lovable. He's just... there.

So this is all for the best. Maybe Jim is good after all. Maybe he's known all this from the beginning. Perhaps he's come to fix the problem of what Shark is so that what's left of this ragged old country doesn't get put to waste.

So he's going to die.

What an odd thought. Not scary yet, though; the reality hasn't caught up quite yet. But odd. Because Shark never imagined it'd be like this. He thought his death would end up being the one murder he wouldn't be able to solve. Maybe he'd be poisoned or beaten to death by another gang in revenge for revealing their secrets. Something where he'd never know exactly who did it, how they'd found him or how long they'd been following his discreet footsteps.

Also odd because he never expected to be killed by the man he let himself be taken by.

Theo was his first. Not because he ever wanted to have a first, but because he was trading. An act of service for a bag of food was the offer, and he didn't want to let that go.

Shark still doesn't want to admit it, but it was also easier to go through with because he actually cared for Theo. And caring for someone, in that way, for that long, is something that rarely happens to him. Theo was special. Theo, in many ways, was a miracle.

But Theo was never real.

Jim now fakes a pout. His bottom lip puckers out, but his eyes remain lifeless, glossed over as if they belong to a corpse. "Aww, Shark," he whines, "It looks like I've affected you."

Shark clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. "I'm not affected."

The sentence prepares to guard him, but it does a weak job, the metal of its gates rusting over before they're even in the ground. At least his voice is steady. Quiet, but steady.

"Your eyes give it away," Jim explains distantly. "They always give it away. I could always tell with you. All I needed was a moment of eye contact and I'd know exactly what you knew and felt. It's so simple, Shark. You've always been so, so simple. Oh, you're breathtaking, don't get me wrong," he continues, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head, "but, after you've stripped away all that... surface, all the games and the sex and the smarts, what you've got left is that set of eyes. They're what hold all your feelings, Shark - did you know? They're the most human thing about you."

Shark wishes he'd just get on with it and stop wasting everyone's time with useless poetry. "I wish I could say the same about you."

"I think you're trying to divert from what I'm telling you," Jim scolds lightly, his voice turning all high-pitched and sing-songy for the last few words. "I can tell you're affected. I know you are. You can't hide from me, Mr. Trench-coat. No matter how hard you try, I'll always see that you feel." He leans into the statement, grimacing and latching onto it with his bared teeth.

And then there's silence.

Shark's heart is going at a rate he's almost scared he won't be able to withhold. So much is happening. The usual traffic in his brain has become so heavy and muddled and crowded that it's almost at a complete standstill. Theo was never real. It was never real. Not much ever is.

Jim blinks. "Say it."

Shark swallows anxiously. "Sorry?"

A shrug. "Say it."

Shark wants so badly to stop his muscles from tensing up, his mind from racing, his first finger from twitching and tapping against his thigh. But he can't. Right now, it seems he can't control anything.

"Say... what?"

Jim smiles blankly, his lips tightly pressed together. He's too casual for this situation. He doesn't belong in it. Although it certainly seems to belong to him.

"Admit that you're affected," he dares him. "Tell me that I made you feel."

Shark grinds his front teeth together, his lungs feeling too small and his hands feeling too cold. He won't fall for this. It's cruel. It's... It's downright sadism. And he won't have it, regardless of how possible it is that he might die.

"No."

Jim computes the response at an unnaturally quick speed. Perhaps it's because that's what he was expecting to hear. Maybe he predicted it. Or maybe he just gets no as an answer too often. His arm, which had been previously lowered to talk to Shark, flies up at John again, the short barrel pointing right at the bomb on his chest.

"Say it," he says, this time with a bit of intensity. Finally, some emotion. "Say it now."

Shark shows his teeth, his nose scrunching up as he almost hisses back. "Why?"

"God damn it, Shark," Jim sighs, his voice back down to its usual monotonous state, a small, terrifying chuckle echoing from his lips. Swearing seems to come easily to him, and he doesn't appear to be cautious about it. Of course, being shot isn't as likely when you've got a gun as well. "I thought you'd find that rather obvious." He shrugs, adding a dramatic pause before finally explaining, "I want you to say it because I need to get into your head."

Multiple things cross Shark's mind when he hears this. For example: Jim doesn't just want him to say it. He's pointing a gun at a bomb. There is no choice.

Also: Shark admitting to being affected wouldn't get Jim into his head. The only thing that'd let into his little brain would be things that he's sworn he'll never let in again. Like the items on the list he's absentmindedly constructed in his thoughts just now:

~ Love  
~ People  
~ Memories  
~ The solar system  
~ Family  
~ John  
~ Emotions  
~ Sentiment

There's no way that Jim could be on this list. Not at all. Not now, not later, not ever. He doesn't belong there. The closest thing would be Theo, and that's in the memory compartment.

But Shark doesn't bring any of this up. That will only waste time. He's cornered now. There's no way out of this. All of them - Shark, John, and Jim - are in the hands of that gun, and of the finger just lightly brushing against the trigger. It dances against it. It's a blade of dead grass against the wind.

"Fine," Shark hesitantly agrees. "I'm... I'm affected."

Jim closes his eyes, savouring the sentence in his ears. "And?"

Shark says nothing, not willing to reveal that he's a bit confused.

His eyes open again. "Oh, you've got to say the whole thing. I have a..." His finger tightens on the trigger. "...desperate need to hear all of it. Every last bit."

Oh. Right. That.

"I've been affected," Shark grudgingly drags himself to choke out, "and you... made me feel."

"Music to my ears, Shark. Truly, I thank you."

And with that, the gun clicks once more.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

16th November, 2007

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I think I've figured out your real name.

You've been hiding behind the name Sherlock Holmes for too long. I know it's just a mask; just a façade to keep people from trying to kill you.

I know you think it's impossible that I found the name behind it. But I don't. In fact, I worked very hard at trying to find you. I searched all public records that are still on paper and came up dry. Not even one hint, until I figured something out.

Only one of the cleverest people in the world would be able to keep their name out of anyone's file. And I only partially believe it, but I think I know what name is attached to that trait. Not Sherlock Holmes, but a name very close to it.

Please tell me. Tomorrow night. Meet me at the usual place. I miss seeing you. I don't know if you feel the same. It'd be wonderful if you could tell me.

Yours,

Theo

-

He sighed, folding the letter and stuffing it in his pocket. Did he care about Theo? Or was he only in it for the food? In all honesty, there were times when he felt like writing a letter back to him. Did that mean he was... attached?

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called down the stairs, hearing her clinking around in the kitchen.

"Yes?"

"I'm going out again tomorrow. Don't be alarmed to find me missing."

Fuck it. He cared. And he was going.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Two of the three people in the room expected to die a few moments ago.

John's eyes had been squinted tightly shut, his heart stopped almost completely as he braced himself to be the first living thing in the room to feel the sensation of blowing up, even if it was only by a fraction of a second. He still would have to be first, which was a brave thing to do, involuntarily or not, but a shitty thing to do nonetheless.

But Jim, having wasted all the time and drama for nothing, slipped the gun back into his pocket and left the room.

All that's left inside the empty space is Shark, John, a bomb, and crippling, dehumanising shock.

It's silent. Their hearts are both shuddering in their chests, beating against their ribs and threatening to break out. All they can do is stand there until the footsteps finally fade out and they're left without a trace of the man that has full power to kill them both. Their eyes meet, and they stay where they are, locked, unmoving. They got out of this alive. By God, they're alive.

John lets out a long sigh of relief, closing his eyes and trying to calm his nerves before his heart gets the best of him. Shark, suddenly snapping back to reality and snapping his gaze to the danger that didn't leave with Jim. There's still a live bomb, blinking slowly, very attached to John's chest. He has to get it off.

Racing toward John, Shark sees Theo.

He sees him bleeding out of the stomach. He sees his terrified, lively eyes looking up at the sky. As his hands reach to take the bomb off of John's shoulders, he simultaneously reaches for Theo's wound. For Theo. Just so he can be there to see him die. Just so he can at least try to do one thing right. Even if it's only in his head.

"Teddy," he wishes he would have whispered. "Theo, I'm here."

His hand reaches for the wound and gently presses down on it, the blood seeping into all the little lines in his fingers. It runs over his palm, down his wrist, dripping unforgivingly on the ground until his feet are surrounded by the thick liquid. If he can stop the bleeding, maybe he can save him. Maybe he can keep him good and alive and on the side of the angels. His breath wavers, and so do Theo's eyes.

His fingers reach the bomb. He tears John's coat away. He presses harder on Teddy's abdomen.

"I'm here," he wishes he would have whispered. "I'm always here."

The blood keeps coming. It's up to his ankles. Every time he speaks, it seems to reach higher. It flows out until it hits his knees. The blood grows taller, stronger and more, coming in like a tide. It's at his waist now as he strips John's bomb away. It's heavy, and it's in his hands just as the blood reaches his fingertips.

"It's okay, Teddy. I'll never leave you. I'm going to stay right here."

I won't go away. I can't go away.

The blood is at his shoulders now. He's not strong enough to hold Teddy above it. But he holds him close as the two of them slowly drown in the red river that's formed around them. Teddy's eyes have closed now. And Shark needs to breathe. Because he's human, and, for God's sake, he's alive and he's going to stay that way.

I'm sorry, Teddy.

He lets go of the body. And he lets go of the bomb, dropping it to the floor as he lets Theo fall to the merciless ground. He's failed. He's let Theo go.

His legs kick, his arms almost flailing until, finally, he surfaces.

Shark finds himself back in the pool room, staring blankly at the bomb on the floor, still catching his breath. John falls to his knees, overcome with relief and surprise as he realises just what he's overcome.

"Oh, my God," John gasps, staring at the floor. "Oh, my God."

Shark kicks the bomb away with his foot, eventually picking John's coat back up and handing it over to him.

"You know," John finally says, leaning his head back against the wall, "This is quite the suggestive scene."

Shark, forcing himself to stop thinking about Theo for just one second, looks back in interest.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

John shrugs. "You, ripping my clothes off in a dark, abandoned room. People might talk."

Shark laughs a little. "Well, John, luckily for us," he feels the collar of his coat, making sure it's still unfolded. "people are dead." He pauses, starting his preparation to leave and asking, "Would you mind, though, if they did?"

"If they did what?"

Shark clears his throat. "If the living ones decided to... talk."

"Well," John concludes, "since the world is ending and we could die at any given moment, there are much worse things to worry about." He takes a deep breath and slowly lets it go, his hands still a bit shaky from the adrenaline. "So, no, I wouldn't mind at all."


	10. Death, Wine, and Stale Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers some old letters.

Three things John has been dying to know:

Where all the wine went (1)  
What the hell happened last night (2)  
Who Theo was (3)

Three hypotheses he's come up with:

It disappeared (1)  
Who the hell knows (2)  
Someone really fucking important (3)

The bottle is empty on the floor. His mind is buzzing with a mixture of alcohol and confusion, everything in his head muddy and matte and tangled. He's gonna regret drinking this later. They need to conserve all this wine that they find. It's a delicacy now, rare and more expensive than one's own life.

John sniffs, noticing how stuffy the room is. It dawns on him that one can't use a hoover in here without power, and this oddly comes as a surprise to him. He watches the particles of dust in front of him, falling like indoor rain from the ceiling. Except it has a different intention than rain. If rain was evil, it would be dust.

"Would you mind, though? If the living ones decided to talk?"

The scene replays in John's head. His ears try to understand it. It sounds beautiful, echoing off the inside walls of his skull. The voice, the depth of it, the flow, the person from which it came.

"No. I wouldn't mind at all."

He licks his lips, tasting the alcohol left over on them. It's sweet and smooth and he likes the sensation of it.

Should I have said that?

He leans his head back in the chair, closing his eyes in an attempt to make things seem less staticky and washed away. Saying that was suggestive. Was love what he was suggesting?

Maybe.

What?

Shit.

John decides that he isn't attracted to Shark. Why would he be? He hasn't ever liked a man before. His mind is just... well, for one thing, his mind is a bit drunk.

A new list.

Reasons John isn't, and can't be, attracted to Shark:

That's not how people are supposed to work (1)  
They're only closer as friends (2)  
and it only feels like more because of the drama (3)  
and the adrenaline (4)  
and the bloody stupid wine. (5)

Fancying Shark. He scoffs. Complete, utter nonsense. Just a game his brain is playing. Adrenaline makes everyone think they're in love, and he's guessing love is an idea he's too eager to grasp on to. That's how he's always been. That's how he knows that he's fooled himself.

What he knows for sure: Should he have said it? Yes.

And he's proud that he did. It was a cool thing to say. Well, no. It was a thing to say. And that was much better than silence. Saying things makes it so much easier to make trauma wear off. He should remember that for next time.

Shark enters the room as one would enter a scene from Shakespeare - purposefully, poised, his expression cool and calm. His night-robe swishes behind him, his loose pyjama trousers bouncing each time his feet hit the floor. He walks to the window, taking a moment to peek out from between the large oak boards strewn across it before bending down and picking up his violin.

John hasn't heard him use his violin before, and he repositions himself in his seat as his eyes lock on Shark's hand, thin and long, wrapping around the neck of the instrument as the other one plucks a bit at the strings.

"You play that very nicely," John compliments, and Shark merely rolls his eyes and puts the edge of the violin under his chin.

"I was tuning it."

John nods. "Well, you tune it very nicely."

Shark takes a long breath, his eyes closing as he prepares to speak. His fingers wrap around the edge of his bow.

"I suggest not saying anything more, John," he advises. "Over the past hour, you've consumed the rest of that bottle of wine, which is roughly twelve-point-five percent alcohol as a whole. You've had about four servings, which is more than enough to get you tipsy, and you were fully aware of this when you began - drinking is likely an escape mechanism for you, which is a bit dangerous, considering your obvious family history with substances - and now you're drunk off your tailbone telling me that tuning a violin sounds nice?! Please, for the love of Martha Hudson herself, don't say anything else unless you want to deeply regret it." His eyes glance at John as he turns away and repositions his fingers on the bow.

John nods slowly, not exactly able to process all of that. "Um, yes," he finally says. "I agree."

And now a breath.

"I see."

Shark turns, lifting the bow to the strings but hesitating to play. John watches him move, his slim figure swaying to the right as his bow moves down across the lowest string. His eyes close as he plays, the song not recognisable to John at all but very lovely nonetheless. It's captivating; the room, the candlelight, the music, the way he moves, the way he plays, the way the wine fizzes still on John's lips. It's the next best thing to magic, in John's eyes. Witchcraft, maybe.

Now that he's thought it, it seems to make sense to him. Shark, as a whole, as an act of motion, seems to be some sort of sorcery. He must be. Because nobody like him could be so... real. Maybe he's an angel. Or perhaps he's some sort of siren. He certainly has the luring touch, the luminous stance.

The song is sad. If he'd said this aloud, John would be replied to with a sigh from Shark, who would say something along the lines of, "That's because I wrote it in B flat minor. Minor, you unintelligent specimen of swamp bacteria. Of course it's sad. Obviously." And then he'd smile a bit, his expression warm and fluid, and continue playing. But this doesn't happen, because John doesn't say anything. And the reason for his silence is that he feels like going to sleep. He's both drunk and hypnotised, watching Shark almost dance around the candle on the side table. Or maybe it's just the wine that's making him feel so drawn-in.

They always talk about the moth being attracted to the light, but one thing they never tell you is that, sometimes, the flame begins to want the moth, too. There's always a point where, during the little courtship dance, the candlelight begins to lean in.

If John could pinpoint the exact moment where this began to happen, it would be a lie if he said it was this late. If he's being honest with himself and I'm being honest with you, it happened a long time ago. Shark has been so intriguing this whole time. Since the very fucking start.

Here's an addition from John:

He's too fucking intriguing for anyone to fucking handle because he's a fucking genius who could be fucking anyone if he wanted to because he's also really fucking attractive to the point of which straight men reconsider their fucking sexuality while drunk.

Straight men meaning him. John Watson. Who knows about anyone else.

The song continues.

The melody illustrates what John associates with a rose: soft, smooth, folded and curved in the perfect spots, flowing and delicate in others. He's surrounded by these roses, floating around his head, their fragrance caressing his lips and his nose and chin. He can see it bloom backwards, slowly closing until it's all shut and over and done.

Shark takes a breath and puts the violin down, turning and sitting in his chair so casually that it's as if he didn't just paint John an entire goddamned garden.

John leans his cheek lazily on his own fist. "Is that your own?"

Shark looks up. "Sorry?"

"The song," John says, slurring just a bit. He tries extra hard to be articulate. "S'it yours?"

"Yes," Shark replies, matter-of-fact, ignorant. "Is that important?"

John gapes a bit - well, as much as he physically can without having to move his hand - and blinks. Pauses. Blinks again.

"I rest when I'm high, solve puzzles when I'm bored, and compose when neither of those situations are the case," Shark drones on, somehow acting as an ornament for the bland, empty room. "Why you think that's so flaming remarkable is, in all honesty, absolutely incomprehensible to me. It's a hobby, John, an accidental, almost unwelcome skill, an unwanted need that only passes time."

John giggles a bit, like a child. "Flaming," he repeats. "I swear..."

Shark rolls his eyes and adjusts himself in the chair, crossing his legs over the right armrest and leaning back against the other. John thinks he sits more like someone in a magazine photoshoot than a real-life human being. It's a little annoying when he's sober. But he isn't now, so he doesn't give a shit to how Shark sits. He doesn't give a shit about anything.

"Well," John sighs, "it was a beautiful song. Very pretty."

What Shark should respond with is "Thank you". What he says instead is absolutely nothing. He just sits there, seeming like he doesn't really want to talk about music, or maybe anything at all. His eyes look down at his own hands, studying them as John stares him down.

"Whatever drives you to write those, anyway?" John asks, his words sounding oddly lazy and tired. Then again, he is lazy and tired, so everything about him now is a matching set. "It can't be boredom. From what I've heard, music doesn't come from bordshmonnm..." He trails off, closing his eyes for a moment before snapping them back open and correcting himself. "Boredom. It comes from... passion, or something."

But Shark only stares. He stares at his hands, at the wall, at the flickering candle (which seems to be his eyes' personal favourite). He watches it dance, casting shadows on the wallpaper before him, making wax drip down to the metal saucer beneath it. Every once in a while, he stares at John, who, at this point, is feeling a bit frustrated.

"Why'd'ya never talk?" he interrogates slowly, disappointed and almost shaming. His fist grows tired, so he takes his chin off of it and moves in his chair so he's leaning back against it. "You don't talk to me. I don't like it. I want to... know you."

"There are other ways to know me."

John sets his jaw. "How do you know?" he asks. "Has anyone ever really known you before?"

"John, I think you need to get some rest-"

"Honesty is the easiest way. We're living together, for Heaven's sake-"

"You're intoxicated. You're not thinking properly, so it'd be best to sleep it off-"

"And I don't see why you can't just listen to me for once and respond like a normal human being, because-"

"It'll take roughly six hours for all of it to leave your system, so you might as well go to bed and-"

"This is how I feel all the time, but I never say it because..." John can't find the right wording. His brain is too slow. But, luckily for him, Shark has finally stopped interrupting him.

"Because why?" he asks, his head turned directly at John, his swoops of hair falling away from his forehead as he leans over the side of the chair. The flame from the candle that was earlier dancing alone is now dancing across his skin, too, fluttering along with his eyelids, glowing with his eyes.

John looks back, his brow slightly furrowed, the wheels on his train of thought rusting together and suddenly coming to a rough halt. "I..." he stutters, "I don't... I don't know."

They both sit there, unmoving, unblinking for a few moments. Shark studies him, trying to piece all of John together into something that makes sense, a predictable thing, like most other people, that you can understand without asking them a single "What...?" or "And how...?" or "When...?" - a simple something that you know all about.

Frustratingly for Shark, John isn't one of those people. He isn't a flat surface. He's got scars and rips and tears, and it's hard to see through them. Shark can't pinpoint one thing about his teenage life or his favourite rock band or why he went and joined the military.

So, in a mutual sense, neither of them know much about the other. And Shark can sort of start to understand why that can be bothersome.

"Why do you never use that?" John asks abruptly. Shark snaps out if his little daze and blinks.

"Use what?"

"The fireplace."

"Right," Shark replies. "I'd forgotten we've got one."

"That's the reason?"

"No."

Shark smirks for a second at his own reply, and John's eyebrows fall lower on his face in blank irritation.

"Why don't you use it?" he repeats himself. He is rather cold, as there's no heat regulation without electricity and all he has on is his shirt and trousers.

"Smoke coming out through the chimney will alert authorities and other people that this place is inhabitable and likely has resources they could use for themselves to stay alive. Obviously." Shark takes a breath and sighs it out, like he's pretending to smoke. "You'll get used to the temperature changes after a few months. Your body will eventually adapt."

"Hm," John says, becoming more and more tired by the half-second. Shark gets up and leaves the room, so without anyone to talk to and nothing else to do, John lets himself sink into a deep, cold sleep.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

He's awoken by his own screams.

John bolts upright in the chair, his heart pounding, his palms almost dripping in a nervous sweat. He doesn't even remember what he dreamed, but he has one likely guess.

John's recurring nightmare:  
[daytime - battlefield -  
one week before  
he's sent home]

This is the last day he's out on battle grounds. He just doesn't know it yet.

He's learned to drown out the screams and the firing. It's a trait he's developed over time. Selective hearing, his friend Cole jokingly calls it. It's only funny to him because it's true.

John is able to ignore anything he wants, except for one thing: first aid. He has one job, one humongous responsibility, and he needs to fulfil it every day until he gets out of this hellhole and until his boots hit blood for the very last time.

He sees a body fall, and another, not processing the sounds of their voices but the way in which they move. The noise is all background, muffled and blurred together and almost ambient, dreamlike. He sprints over to the man who seemed to have the most gruesome fall, immediately taking his pulse to make sure he's still alive. He is, but barely.

John tears open his uniform, desperately trying to find the wound, but he finds no blood anywhere. No sign of a bullet at all.

And then:

Oh, my god.

He can only think the phrase. He's almost too frozen to bring himself to say it. Or maybe he has already, and hasn't noticed.

The soldier beneath him has a huge bruise on his neck. He's been hit there, with blunt force. He's going to die and there's nothing John can do about it.

Fucking hell.

"I can't help you," John thinks he says aloud. "I am so sorry."

I am so sorry, he repeats in his head as he runs off. It's like putting the message out there again and again will save him from some sort of eternal damnation. But it doesn't. He's damned to this day, dreaming this again and again.

If you're wondering, yes, the man died. He watched him be thrown out among the other bodies. He saw his scared face; his terrified, glossy, marbled eyes. But that happens later in the dream, granted he stays asleep for that long.

Now all he can do is run. He runs right past the other body, dissociated and numb. He needs to get away from the man he's leaving behind. He needs to forget him. To get him out of his head.

And so he does.

It's only momentary, a simple, temporary distraction, but something else catches John's attention.

Lying on the ground beneath him, bloodstained and very surely dead, is the one person that's helped him through all of this.

John sinks to his knees. He's fallen. His best friend has fallen. He's down. God, he's down and he's gone and it's all over.

He chokes on his own voice.

"Cole."

This is how he's so sure that adrenaline bonds people. At this moment, he simultaneously feels like they're the closest they've ever been, and, still, he's never felt so isolated.

Blood dribbles out of Cole's open mouth, staining his lips like fresh cherries. John watches.

And then he's shot, too.

The first sound he hears that day is the sound of cracking bones. Emotionlessly looking down, he sees a gaping hole in his shoulder. He doesn't even feel scared as he watches it bleed. He doesn't feel anything. He doesn't want to. He wants to be dead.

He just sits there next to his friend. The only friend he ever met on the military that he thought he could keep, completely ripped out of his hands.

He doesn't even know when Cole died.

Liquid splatters his back over and over, and he can't tell if it's blood or dirt. He doesn't care to look.

He could have been there. He could have comforted Cole. He could have saved him, even. He could have ignored the other body. He could have-

This is where he usually wakes up. It's pointless discussing the parts he rarely relives.

He's awake now. Thank God. It's over. It's done. The only thing left behind is the pain and the loss and the unforgiving, relentless trauma of it all. It's stitched into him with thick, metal wire. He can never take the stitches out. They won't go away.

John hunches over in his chair, hiding his face in his hands. For a good, long while, he cries. That's all he can do. It's all he ever does.

Someone has carefully placed a hand-knit blanket over him, and he wraps it around himself, trying to warm up and calm down. It isn't real anymore, he tells himself. It's over.

Not like saying that is very reassuring. Telling himself that it's over only confirms that everybody that he could have saved is still dead.

His head is pounding, a headache planted deep in his own brain, and he sighs and stands up.

Water, he tells himself. Water will help.

He doubts there's any Motrin or ibuprofen here, let alone any sort of headache-related medication at all, but he knows there's no better way of getting alcohol flushed out of the system than literally flushing it out. He stands up, swaying a bit as the sudden movement makes his head hurt just a bit more, and tries to navigate in the dark.

Feeling his way along the walls, John finds the kitchen as his eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. He reaches for he cupboards, forgetting which one kept the bottled water and going through all of them, feeling around inside.

Inside a completely empty cabinet, his fingers brush against something that slightly sparks his interest. He stands up on the tips of his toes, trying to reach far enough in to pull it out.

Does this count as snooping? he wonders, dragging the object out and taking a moment to try and examine it. Being nosy like this may be the only way to know anything about Shark, though, so perhaps it's justifiable that he's looking at things that don't belong to him.

He almost forgets his headache as he slowly makes out the words on the thing in his hands.

It's an envelope, dated 10 November 2007, just roughly a month before the mail service came to a close. It's been ripped open at the top, and there's a cursive address written in black ink on the front. John's jaw drops as he looks down at it.

To Mr. Sherlock Holmes  
221B Baker Street, 1st Floor  
London, England

He reads it again, just to make sure his headache isn't messing with his mind.

Sherlock Holmes? Living here? It can't be Shark... can it?

Perhaps he moved out. He moved out once the drought hit and flew to Norway or something without telling a soul, letting Shark move in. Because Shark isn't dangerous. He's smart, sure, but there's no way that people have a reason to avoid him.

Regardless, John takes out the folded piece of loose-leaf paper nestled comfortably inside. He unfolds it, flattening out the crease and squinting to try and read it.

-

10 November, 2007

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Do you ever wonder about death?

Life is so fragile, you know. So easily breakable. Like people. Putting it out is so simple. Life is just another delicate soul.

When I die, I think I'm going to Hell.

My mother always said that gays go down and burn with all the little other souls like them. That's what she raised me to believe. So I do. I believe it wholeheartedly.

But you aren't going to Hell, even if you are gay (you never told me, by the way. What kind of people do catch your fancy?) because someone like you couldn't be resisted by the angels. Not one of them could help but pull you up.

Anyway, I am going to Hell. So I think it's best to live life to the fullest. Live a good life for however long it'll be. It's the end of the world, basically. I could die in twenty years or in a day. You never know.

So, that said, I'd like to see you. I know you just saw me last night. But it was wonderful, and I'd like to do that every night until I go to the underworld.

See me. The usual place.

Yours,

Theo

-

John is far more curious now than he was originally. That's the problem with him. Once he's interested, he can't keep himself away from the target. It's a flaw of his, sometimes a blessing and sometimes a trapping, debilitating curse. He can't stop himself from knowing all of what's in front of him.

Forget Sherlock Holmes. He isn't here now. What John is interested in is Theo.

Reaching up into the cupboard again, John feels a whole other stack of opened letters. He grabs three of them by the tips of his fingers, pulling them out with a little swooshing sound and deciding to read as many as he can.

But footsteps interrupt his mission. Hearing someone approaching through the hallway, he stuffs the three new letters behind the waistband of his trousers, tucking the tops of them under his shirt. He's got no time to conceal the first one as a dark, graceful silhouette enters the centre of the doorframe.

"Hello, John." Shark says almost condescendingly, as if he knows exactly what's going on.

John pretends to be clueless. "Good morning."

Shark takes the first envelope off the counter and puts it back up into the cupboard, nonchalantly closing it shut and taking a match out of his pocket. "Are you lost?" he teases, with a sense of "But, actually, though," lingering in his tone.

"No," John replies, watching Shark light the match and touch it to the end of a candle. "I was looking for the water."

"Headache?" Shark guesses, even though he can already tell. John wonders if he's clever enough to know he still has letters tucked away under his shirt.

"Yeah."

Shark nods to his left. "Medicine's in the drawer."

"Oh," exclaims John, pulling open the designated drawer and taking out the first medication that he's familiar with. "I didn't think you'd have any that work for..."

"Hangovers."

"Right." John takes a pill in his hand and swallows it dry, putting the bottle back into the drawer. Shark, whose face is illuminated by the candle he's holding, watches silently.

John sits down on the nearest chair, staring at the empty space before him where it seems as though a table used to be. It was probably taken by the police in the raid. Must've been a nice table.

Shark sits down in the other chair, setting the candle on the counter next to him. He looks at John, and then the candle, and back at John again. And, like he's picked up on a few of his traits, Shark awkwardly clears his throat as a cue for himself to speak.

"I, um..." he begins, not being very linguistic for a genius. "I heard... well... you were screaming." His eyes meet John's, and they look lonely, concerned, fragile.

John sighs in slight embarrassment. "Oh," he groans. "Yeah."

Shark isn't very advanced in the area of empathy or compassion, but he does know one thing he can say. He scrunches up his brow a bit. "You okay?"

John nods. "Just nightmares. From the post-traumatic stress, you know."

"I understand," comes the unexpected reply. "I get those, too."

John's very skeptical about this. Shark hasn't been to fucking war. If he were still drunk, John would likely ask how in hell Shark is able to understand. He's probably just saying that to make him feel better.

However, even though it makes him a bit pissed, John appreciates the thought.

"What time is it?" he asks, and Shark shrugs.

"Probably around four in the morning."

Shit. "Sorry for waking you."

Shark looks at the floor. "I was awake."

"...Oh."

Shark doesn't go into further detail. John doesn't expect him to.

The flame flutters, making shadows jump left and right inside the room. Finally, John's headache begins to recede, ebbing out until it's only a dull pressure inside his skull. Shark sits with him in silence, both of them enjoying the other's company but not feeling an uncomfortable, forced need to speak.

That is, until John remembers the letter.

"When I was looking for the water," he says, making Shark's eyes flick back up to him again, "I found a letter."

Shark sounds casual when he replies, although his eyes seem to be potentially agitated. "So I gathered."

"Look..." John sighs, unsure of exactly what he should say and how to say it. He takes a wild guess and hopes it works. "Did you know Sherlock Holmes? Did he used to live here?" He pauses. "Is he who you composed that song for?"

Shark takes a long time to respond. His eyelids flit about, his gaze averted to the ground. He opens his mouth, his soft lips just tense enough to give John the signal that this is a somewhat touchy topic.

"You shouldn't have read that letter," he finally says. "The contents are neither our business nor of our concern."

John shrugs. "I was just curious."

"Don't be."

John swallows, not liking how much Shark darts around his questions. "Who is he?"

"I think you mean, 'Who was he?'" Shark corrects absently. "All I can tell you is that Sherlock Holmes was a hopeless romantic with a desirable side-job until stress, drought and loss got the best of him and he drowned in blood. I haven't thrown any letters away because it's like I'm throwing him away, too. You never want to disrespect the dead."

John's eyes widen a bit. "That's terrible," he remarks. "Did you know him?"

Shark smiles slightly, only the right corner of his lip moving the smallest bit. "I'd say I knew him better than I know myself now."

John shakes his head. He knows the feeling. "I'm sorry."

You didn't kill him, Shark thinks, forcing himself to keep from saying it aloud. He hates when people say that. It's all they ever say. It means nothing anymore, the phrase so overused that it's an automatic response to almost everything. There's no point in saying it these days. It's all the same.

They both watch the crescent flame of the candle reach out and curve back in. It's an adorable, beautiful little flame. Special, even; it has an inviting quality that neither of them possess.

"Why is it," John says, breaking the silence, "that people were so scared of him?"

This is a hard question.

What makes people scared of Sherlock Holmes?

He was smart, he had strong moral values, he cared about people, he made connections and had resources. Was he intimidating? Threatening? Did people think he might have been insane?

Shark keeps his eyes on the flame, knowing that the light will still be burned into his vision for a while after he looks away, but staring straight at it anyway. Searching for its core. Wanting to understand it.

"I don't know."

John catches his eyes staring at Shark, watching the firelight trickle over his face, washing through his sad and diverted eyes. He looks away.

The letters in his trousers are beginning to dig into his skin, and it takes him a lot of uncomfortable restraint to keep himself from adjusting them and giving himself away. He's always looked for honesty in people, but now he sees how much of a lying hypocrite he really is, hiding someone's private letters under his belt. Why he's even asking Shark to answer these questions honestly is beyond him. What an arse he is.

Of course, he only realises how much of a dick he is after he feels the itchy, intrusive pain from the pointed ends of three separate envelopes threatening to poke through his abdomen. But he still knows it's true. John Watson is an arse.

But Shark doesn't think so.

Shark knows he isn't innocent to any degree, but he's one of the most interesting people he's ever met. He's new and he's hard to understand and he's useful, and above all this, he hasn't gone away. He's stayed here, willingly tagging along and acting as a real friend. For the first time in a long while, Shark thinks this is something that just might last.

"Shark?" asks John, nervously tapping his fingers on his knee. "May I at least know the title of the song? Anything about it, really. Anything at all."

Shark thinks for a while, his gaze tracing the trim on the doorframe, the edge of the countertop, the lines in the floor, and John's eyes, so fixed on him that they might just lock there forever.

"Hudson made biscuits that day," he explains. "She loves to make things. There are probably still some old ones from last week, if you're hungry." He stands up, opening one of the taller cupboards and taking down a basket of them, handing it to John and then making his way out of the room. He needs to avoid any further questions, and he needs to sleep.

"Goodnight, John."

And he's gone.

Mostly.

"And don't touch those letters."

John doesn't mention that he's already touching three. He finally stands up, hearing a slightly deafening crunch from the paper in his trousers and feeling the relief from the absence of their prodding.

"Goodnight," he finally calls softly down the short hall, but Shark's door is already shut.

Putting the biscuits back down on the counter and picking up the candle, John turns and heads to the stairs, not even taking the letters out of his shirt before he's up a level and inside his room.

Putting the candle down next to his bed, John takes the first one out of his trousers and slowly, carefully opens it up.

-

9 November, 2007

Mr. Holmes,

I had the fantastic experience of meeting you earlier.

Would you like to meet again?

And, please don't lie this time. What's your first name? Holmes may have a curse as a family name, but the only thing that could possibly scare me away would be if the first one was really Sherlock. Not just as a lie or a stolen stage name like you use it as.

You aren't Sherlock Holmes. I know it.

Tell me on the night this arrives. The usual place. I've got flour and sugar in return.

Yours,

Theo

-

John puts the letter back into the envelope. He finds it interesting, the whole thing about Sherlock Holmes pretending to pretend to be himself. No wonder he's known for being clever. That's probably the best disguise there is.

He's tired now, so he tucks all the letters under his bed, promising himself he'll read the others tomorrow. Because, by God, if Shark won't tell him anything, John will do some detective work of his own.

He leans over and blows out the candle.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Mycroft!"

"Don't try to argue with me... Shark? Is that what they're calling you now?"

"Don't be a scrap. Get out of my room-"

"Oh, shut up!"

John blinks awake, his head groggy and a bit achey, and he sits up in bed. At first, he's alarmed by the commotion, but he then recognises both of the voices and decides it's no big deal what's going on.

"I'm here because I have an idea."

"An... idea?"

"A plan." Mycroft says, more quietly now. John decides to get up, not bothering to make himself look presentable. Although one thing's for certain: he does need a haircut. He'll deal with that later.

"Okay then," Shark says, a bit hushed. "Come in."

John heads down the stairs, being sure not to make them creak. Listening closely as he descends, his mouth parched but his ears open and receiving. Whatever they're talking about seems to matter most. More, even, than water.

Daylight filters through the boarded windows, lighting his way down the stairs. He hears Shark's door close, and then Mycroft again.

"Where's the phone?"

Hesitation.

"Why?"

"Because it's part of the living, flaming plan. Give it to me."

"Fine."

John suddenly realises that this would be the perfect time to pocket a few more letters. He creeps into the kitchen, opening that same cupboard and reaching his hand inside.

But, like his hopes of fulfilment, It's empty.

Shark must have moved them. But where?

And, just as he thinks this mission couldn't get any worse, he bumps the basket of biscuits, watching it fall to the floor with a deep thump. He curses inwardly, hearing the voices in the other room stop. He hurriedly closes the cupboard and starts picking them up, stuffing one of them in his mouth in attempt to look like he's doing something of integrity before anyone enters the room.

The door opens, and he scrambles to start picking the biscuits up and placing them back in the basket. He doesn't even have to fake his embarrassment as Shark's feet appear in his vision.

"Good morning, Watson," Shark greets him, matter-of-fact. "I'm gong to need your phone."

John picks up the basket. "Biscuit?" he offers, and Shark only continues his initial point.

"We might be able to make it work. Mycroft knows some government codes-"

"Sure, go ahead," John says. "It's in your bloody coat."

"Oh," Shark remembers. "Yes."

"What are you doing in there, anyway?" John asks. "What... plan?"

"It's a plan that doesn't concern you."

"It sure as hell concerns my phone, though. Of course it concerns me. It wouldn't happen without me."

"Just... go take a walk, John," Shark says in dismissal, taking a biscuit from the basket and heading back into his room, closing the door tightly behind him.

John gives a huff of annoyance, and hesitantly turns to the stairs, doing what he's been asked. The fresh air will help him, anyway.

Shark comes back out of his room, looking through the boards over the window as John finally steps outside.

"Is he gone?" Mycroft asks from the other room. Shark grabs John's phone from his coat and brings it back.

"Just left," he confirms, opening the device and sighing in frustration. "It's locked. The thing's got a flaming passcode."

"Ask him what it is."

"No," Shark replies. "That'll just prompt him to want to know more about what we're doing."

"Try his birth date."

"It's just four digits, you idiot," Shark barks back. "And how would I know his birthday?"

"Try 221B," Mycroft suggests.

"He hasn't used his phone since he got here. Obviously it isn't that."

John doesn't hear their secretive conversation, though he sure as hell knows it's happening. But he does hear something. Something he hasn't heard for God-knows-how-long. Something that he hadn't even previously known still exists here.

A dog.

He sees it in the alley, sniffing through bins and piles of rubbish, its fur scraggly and undone. John has always liked animals, and he's especially drawn to this one, it being the first animal he's seen in months; possibly even years.

"Hello," he coos to it. "You hungry, girl?"

She seems tame, domesticated. John decides he wants to feed her.

Taking the remainder of the biscuit in his hands, John clicks his tongue and beckons the dog nearer. He takes a piece of the food and holds it out on the tips of his fingers, crouching down in invitation for the dog.

"C'mere, girl. It's alright."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Okay, try one, three, seven, four."

"Dammit, Mycroft, we've only got three attempts left."

And it's true. Staring back at the both of them, the screen on the flip phone reads:

I A M  
◻️◻️◻️◻️  
L O C K E D  
3 a t t e m p t s r e m a i n i n g

Mycroft sighs. "Fine, then. Find us when you've got in." He moves to the doorway, placing his grip on the handle and adding, "And remember what I've told you."

Shark rolls his eyes. "Get out."

"See you in a few-"

"Out."

Mycroft opens the door.

And a dog runs in.

Shark's eyes widen. Mycroft jumps, and then pretends he didn't.

The dog looks like a physical representation of the term natural disaster. It fits what it's doing to the situation, too. It tears through the room, almost knocking over the nightstand and putting the things sitting atop it at risk of breaking. One thing's for sure: this is definitely a real, living, breathing dog. There's no chance that someone tried to set up some sort of Trojan horse in dog form. You can't get any more doglike than this.

"How on earth did that get in here?" Shark calls, just as John runs into the room. He's panting, exhausted, excited.

"Look," he announces proudly. "I've got us a dog."

Shark blinks. "I can fu- I can see that."

"Both of you should brush up on your language," Mycroft scolds. "That'll get you in trouble one day-"

Shark scrunches up his face and points at the door. "Mycroft, out!" he orders. "For the last time." He's able to grab the dog by the scruff of her neck and usher Mycroft out of his room, slamming the door and letting the animal go. "'That'll get you in trouble one day...' Like I don't know that."

John looks down at her, obediently sitting on the floor and listening to the footsteps padding down the stairs. They both look at her for a long while, and then each other, and Shark finally speaks again.

"You got us a dog."

John nods. "I did."

"Why?"

"Well, she could be useful. We could hunt with her, use her as a watchdog, have her sniff things out-"

"Feed her, groom her, spend hours training her, make her a bed and a leash, clean up after her, take her on walks..." Shark interrupts, watching her ears perk as Mycroft opens the front door downstairs and leaves.

"But it'll be worth it!" John points out. "And we don't have to worry about a leash if we teach her to walk next to us."

Shark thinks for a moment.

"No."

John, feeling like a dejected child, opens his mouth to speak. "But-"

"Think about this logically, John. We don't have time. We don't have resources. We don't have bloody anything." He sighs. "How could we possibly have a dog?"

"She'll die if we don't take her in."

"We'll suffer if we do."

John grinds his teeth together, holding back from saying all that he feels he should. This might be our only chance to have an animal. Do you know how much this could help us? Do you know how stupid it is to let this go? Or are you unfamiliar with that phrase because you've never been stupid before? You're the most ignorant genius I know.

Granted, Shark is the only genius John knows.

"Well, I'll keep her," John decides. "In my room. She's useful; you'll see."

Shark narrows his eyes. John grabs the dog by her fur and starts bringing her upstairs. Shark can't help but admit to himself that keeping a dog is kind of a good idea.

"Fine," he says, "but if there's one drop of urine on the floor, were sending her to the Swings just in time for dinner."

"Don't worry," John calls back. "I'm toilet trained."

Shark tries to keep himself from smiling, but it's impossible. He snorts in amusement, his agitation beginning to melt away, and decides to follow John upstairs.

They reach the top level, shutting the dog in the bedroom and sort of awkwardly standing outside of it. Their faces seem unsure of what to do, they eyes darting around, avoiding each other like magnets flipped to the wrong side.

Shark finally inhales, his lips pursed and tense, and speaks.

"We're out of food."

John nods curtly, straightening his spine and trying to look more authoritative. "Let's go out and get some, then."

Shark smirks, his hand motioning courteously to the stairway. "After you."

John shakes his head playfully. "No, ladies first."

Shark laughs. John smiles. He did it again. He made Shark laugh.

"You... bitch," Shark giggles, obeying him and leading the way down. "I'm going to get you back for that, you know."

John smiles smugly, following him as quickly as he can. "I look forward to seeing what you come up with."

"You're gonna wish you never said that."

And out they go, forming a false bond the whole way, believing in the lie that they're getting to know each other. Because both of them are keeping secrets from the other. It's just a matter of who gives in first to losing the duel of keeping them. It's all a matter of time before their dishonesty pays off.

End scene.

Enter Irene Adler.


	11. A New Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Shark have a small unwanted meeting with Irene Adler.

"Miss Parson," Adler growled, a whip tightly grasped in her hand. Oh, how she'd missed this, making people sore, making them whimper and grovel and beg. She walked up behind her, wrapping her arms around her bare waist and leaning into her ear. "It seems you've disobeyed me."

Parson wriggled in place, her wrists secured by black, fluffy cuffs, her voice blocked by a dark cloth yanked tightly around her mouth. Adler traced the whip along her hips, down her leg, back up, teasing, taunting, smug. She was talented in this region, Adler. She knew what turned people on; what got them off. She could tell by one look just what kind of things you liked. A consulting seductress. A genius of sex. The new-and-improved goddess of fertility.

She whipped her then, leaving a bright red mark on her inner thigh, matching the colour of her luminous grin. Parson yelped a bit, writhing in place but not regretting this a single bit. She liked the pain. It made her feel exhilarated.

"Oh, Parson. What've I told you about making noise?" Adler pouted, dropping the whip and slinking close to her restrained body. Her hands moved down to places they normally wouldn't, massaging, stroking, seamlessly navigating the same path she'd taken with everybody else she'd ever had before. And she'd had hundreds. Men, women, others - all of them flocked to see the dominatrix. She was somewhat of a tourist attraction now. And she liked that. Irene Adler could never get enough.

She smirked, letting her robe fall to the floor. "You know, Parson," she murmured, "you really aren't like most other girls."

Parson stayed silent, doing as she was told. Adler inched closer. She breathed down her neck. She spoke down her spine.

"I actually like you."

The darkness consumed them, the moonlight washing into the sweat and the skin, caressing the two entangled women, watching them roll about. A bit of its light landed on the floor, where a whip sat, lonely, cold, and left behind. It sat there for the rest of the night, not being used on the first person since Adler's assistant Kate. The moon touched it, giving it a spotlight, making a statement. A new love can always come, no matter what breed of it has been lost. The light just seemed to have a way of making that more clear.

Adler was lonely. She needed a new assistant after tragically losing her previous. So she kept Parson as her little helper for two weeks. But, gruesomely, Parson died.

Although, you knew this already, did you not?

Parson, like Kate, was ripped from Adler's hands, bleeding as she fell through her fingers. Little pieces of her scattered themselves on the floor, and they couldn't be snapped back in place.

So Adler turned her grief into action.

It was time to find a new piece. A new companion.

It was about time to look for someone new.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Three, five, six, two.

John recites the sequence in his head as he clicks the numbers on the keypad, Shark patiently standing behind him.

"I still don't like the idea of having a dog," the genius brings up, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Dust and dirt settle on his bare, sweaty arms and shoulders, sticking to his face and nose.

"Well, I don't give a... care," John spits, swinging the door open and squeezing through. Shark follows him closely, his dirt-ridden trainers hitting the floorboards with a sandy grinding noise as the two shuffle inside and shut the door behind them. John takes his knapsack from his back and pulls it open, immediately grabbing a few small bags of milk powder and sugar and dropping them into the bottom.

"Will canned tuna work for her?" Shark calls from the other room. "The dog, I mean."

"Just the unsalted kind," John replies, adding a small bag of flour to his knapsack and going into the third room. "Do we need water?"

"Just take one of those smaller bottles. We have enough for most of the week. And take a bowl for the dog."

"Right," says John, putting all the needed ingredients in his bag and waiting for Shark to add the tuna to it. Shark appears and drops the cans in, closing the bag and helping it over John's shoulders. "Let's go, then."

Quickly, they head for the heavy, locked door. Shark turns the handle, dragging it open. The door scrapes against the sandy floor, threatening to make their ears bleed if it only chooses to. And then there's the sound of a clearing throat, which dampens their efficient progress, because the noise doesn't belong to either of them.

"That'll be thirty pounds."

They stop dead in their tracks.

Shark closes the door, and they turn around to face the person behind that voice.

Their eyes land on a sorceress. If it weren't so hot, John would be willing to bet that she'd be wearing something black and flowing, because that's the kind of energy she seems to withhold.

She's standing behind the front counter. Her hair is pinned up, cut short in some places for convenience. It doesn't take her a lot of effort to be brooding or mysterious. The words are already sort of attached to her, sewn snugly to her aura. She stares them down, a soft, competitive, bright red smile splashed across her face, highlighting her features in a way that screams dominance, lust, danger. John thinks the shade of her lips may be the most blood-red shade of crimson he's ever seen.

She's the kind of woman that always knows what she wants. Somehow, this makes her more mysterious. And Shark is drawn to mystery almost as much as he's drawn to fire.

John looks to Shark for guidance, because he's The Man Who Always Knows What to Say, but, like John himself, Shark is absolutely frozen. A million different thoughts displaying themselves on his eyes, the slideshow of emotions flip through on an endless loop. Confusion. Shock. Concern. Anger. Confusion. Confusion. Confusion.

His voice is weak when it appears, vibrating the air around them in the quietest, most defeated manner it possibly can. He takes a step toward her, as if to make sure she's real. John imagines him locating a pulse with just his eyes, being able to see the blood circulate, the heart constrict and release, the cells flow through.

"How did you get in here?" he asks. The tone of the sentence is deep and low, dark chocolate against her flaming cherry lips. A lovely combination, but poisonous in the completely wrong context. And poison it is. It stabs John in the wrist, spreading through his veins, making him cringe at the sight of the two of them, so similar, so compatible, so close.

The lady smiles, raising her eyebrows and hoisting herself up on the counter. She sits back, her shoulders hitting the wall, her hands softly positioned around an open, half-empty jar of liquorice. "Like anyone would," she replies. Her eyes dart up and down, assessing the man before her as she takes a piece of the candy and pops it into her mouth. "I got in through the door."

Shark's expression darkens, not appreciating the blatant sarcasm in this tense situation. His shoulders straighten, his fingers curling at his thighs. "That wasn't the intent of my question."

"Then maybe you should make your intent more clear," the woman replies, moving back off of the counter and closing the jar because dammit, that counter wasn't comfortable anyway. "I'm not here to play games. I'm talking business. I always talk business. I assume you've got professional communication skills?" She gives him a glance from the side as she puts the jar back on one of the shelves, not seeming to care much about organisation as she shoves it carelessly between two bags of flour.

Shark narrows his eyes. "Who are you?"

"Oh, nobody, really," she sighs with a casual pout. She leans against the wall and shrugs her shoulders, crossing her hands and looking at a random point on the wall. "Although I was very close to the woman that left this behind. She was my assistant. I assume you didn't know Parson?"

"I knew of her," Shark clarifies. "I heard her die."

"Oh, but you should have known her. Outstanding in the bedroom. You'd never believe it, the talent, the skill," she remarks casually before turning her head back to Shark. "Although you don't seem like the kind of man that would do women."

"No, on the contrary, I..." Shark gasps in a sharp intake of breath. "I don't 'do' anything."

"Hm," the lady hums thoughtfully. "You really are missing out, truly. But I suppose that's all the more for me." She reaches into the hand-sewn pocket of her shorts and takes out a bank card, flashing it like a fancy ID. "To finish answering your question, I go by many names. The Woman is my personal favourite, although there's The Dominatrix, Lady Lace, the Devil's Seductress, oh, and there's also Top Girl and Madame Lovely, to name a few. I won't bore you with the whole list." She pauses, pursing her lips and leaning on the side of the counter. "But my legal name is Irene Adler. Do with that what you will. I'm just telling you because you asked."

She's taller than John is. That somehow makes this situation ten times worse for him. That's the last thing he needs. But he's got it.

"I became attached to that Parson," Adler reminisces, her gaze drifting to the top left corner of her vision. Shark takes note of this.

Shark's note to self:  
Brain activity, Adler, Irene.  
Memory replay -> up and left eye movement.

Adler continues. "That's not something I normally do. It's hard for me to really like someone. That is, unless they're replacing someone else, which she was. Then it's a bit easier, which it was."

She has the complexion of a bar of homemade soap. Silky, smooth and delicate, so light you might see through the surface if you hold it for too long. You might melt it and see what's inside. But there's no point trying to crack her open; Adler, so far, seems to already be an open book.

"She told me about opening a bake shop but died before telling me the passcode. So I had to find it myself. She hadn't written it down anywhere, so it was very tricky to finally find my way in," Adler continues still, staring the two of them down. John feels the blue of her eyes penetrating his skin, leaving little dents and bruises. Her eyes are, in every sense, hail. John can only dream of melting it before it pelts his body.

Shark looks at her expectantly.

"Ah," Adler exclaims, pointing her gloved hand at Shark's chest. "You want to know how I got the code."

"Obviously," Shark quickly replies with a slight nod of the head. Adler smirks, staring him down. She's so confident, so absolutely and unquestionably certain in herself, that her gaze feels like Hell itself stopping by for a visit.

"Long story short, I know an officer that patrols around here," Adler says. "Well, I know what he's into. It was easy. All I had to do was tie him up in handcuffs and dance around a bit, and he-"

"So you get what you want through prostitution," Shark interrupts, and John finally says something, even though it isn't that useful.

"Yeah, what the living..." John trails off as he remembers he isn't allowed to say hell anymore.

Adler rolls her eyes. "It's not prostitution. It's trading," she argues, not giving any evidence to support her statement. "I made a trade deal with him. I got him to let me see the security camera footage from this street. You really weren't very smart to say the code aloud, by the way. Heard it loud and clear. So now I'm here to take what's rightfully mine."

Shark swallows. "Camera? You're telling me there are-"

"So," Adler interrupts, glossing over the question and moving on, "since I was the closest thing Parson had, I'm claiming this shop as my own, and I'm going to carry on doing what she wanted to do with it. It's the noble thing to do."

John furrows his brow. Camera footage. There are cameras watching them. They must be everywhere. But how does she even know they exist?

"My final point," Adler states with a dragged-out sigh, "is that this place - this whole building and every little piece of food inside of it - is mine." She clears her throat, walking around the room a bit as if nothing important is happening at all. "But, to be fair, I'll let you have the things you were planning on taking today."

Defeat is so close that they can smell it. But it hasn't quite hit them yet. There's one more thing that hasn't been covered. John takes a shaky, unconfident breath.

"Did she have a will?" he blurts out suddenly, and Adler turns to face him.

"Sorry?"

"Parson," John repeats himself. "Did she have a will?"

Adler shakes her head. "Not to my knowledge, no. It sure does make things more complicated, doesn't it?" She gives a nervous chuckle, because John Watson has a bloody good point. Shark turns to watch him, his expression dark but grateful. Impressed, even. He gives John a nod, encouraging him to continue.

So he does. John steps forward, tugging on his shirt to straighten it out, and adds to his argument.

"When people die without a family or a will, the government often takes many of their possessions, including homes and properties," he says, a bit uncomfortable being put on the spot like this, but putting his mask of authority over his eyes so nobody can tell. He glares at Adler as he speaks, feeling Shark watching him beat her down. "Not a single one of your many obscure names is in any sort of written document. This isn't your property."

Adler's jaw turns tense and solid, her smirk turned down into a little frown. "Well," she retorts, her brows turned downward, her eyes on the floor, "the government never gave you any invitation to claim this place. They never allowed you to just... come in. On the contrary, they gave me access to the code." She looks back up, her expression hard and contradicting. She walks over to the door, opening it back up and motioning for them to leave. "Take what you can carry, and don't come back."

Shark doesn't bother arguing, and immediately goes to the other room. Straining just a bit, he takes four large jugs of water, which make his fingers turn yellow as he painfully holds all of them up off the ground. As he brings them out the door and to their borrowed bicycles, John keeps his eyes fixed on Adler. He isn't done with her yet. She's got no right to do this.

"Share it with us," he bargains, although he knows it might count as pleading. There's not much of a difference. "Give us a portion of what you've got once a month. That's all I ask. That's just twelve days a year. Wouldn't hurt you too much, I don't think." He smiles at her, though his insides are fuming and ready to grab her by the throat.

"Only if you pay for it," Adler responds. "I'm not just going to give this away for free. This'll be the first business to hit Central London since our climate screwed us over. I won't set it up to fail. I simply can't afford it."

No shit. We can't afford anything these days, John thinks, biting the inside of his cheek. "What's your price?"

"Well, I'm sure you'd initially disagree with the price I give everyone, but it's fascinating what people will do for something they really need when they really need it," Adler thinks aloud, "so here's my price. One night, every two months. With him." She nods her head out the door in the direction of Shark. "Because I don't like like men. But I like him."

John forces an angry chuckle. "No."

Adler breathes in, her chest filling with what Shark would later describe as nitrogen, carbon, oxygen, and disappointment. Her black tank top hugs her tighter as she breathes, encouraging her to let out the air. So she does just that, watching Shark mount the water onto his handlebars and a sack of flour on his seat.

"Intimacy is my game, John," she sighs out, her velvet voice making the sentence sound like a line from a modern Robert Frost. "It's my job. It's how I get things and how I give them. So, if you aren't willing to play my game, I'm not willing to play yours." She ushers him out of the door, keeping it open just a crack and waiting for his response.

But John says nothing. Because of course he isn't willing to play her game. It's inhumane, what she does. It just isn't right. And he won't engage any further.

So, getting on his bicycle, having to sit on a slightly leaking bag of flour and carry a bag of preserves on his back, John defeatedly follows Shark home. Because, though he's good at arguing, Irene Adler seems to be three steps ahead, out of reach and out of touch. And, no matter how long John thinks or how hard he pedals, he can't catch up.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"So what are we going to do?" John asks. They've left the bicycles back at the spot where they got them, which John had thought all along was a bad idea because everything was so heavy. But here he is, carrying three whole flour bags because Shark made the executive decision to save the extra trip. The bags of flour, which initially were hard to lift, are luckily becoming less painful as the paper bags are ripping and the powder is continuously falling out. Shark has it worse, though. He's carrying multiple gallons of water in two arms.

"We're going to keep coming back," Shark says, "and we're going to steal the food."

John turns to him. "Sorry?"

"I don't want to take her deal, and I don't want to leave the place alone. She isn't clever enough to rewire the keypad, so she can't change the code. And, in the case that she does change it, I'll be able to figure it out anyway. Should be easy enough."

"So we're going to steal," John reprimands, refusing to even think about this plan for too long. They're just a few metres away from their front door now, which is a huge relief, considering how exhausted they've become.

"We're going to survive, John," Shark raises his voice just the slightest bit, trying to get the message across. "It isn't 2006 anymore. Laws and morals should be put out of mind when dealing with your own mortality."

John stares up at him, watching his frustrated face scrunch up, his lips tightening, his breath coming out in little huffs of disapproval. He looks so innocent this way. So small and breakable that you'd want to protect him from everything. Even the soft breeze hitting his skin might be a danger to his fragile little soul.

"Okay," John gives in, looking back to their door, which is just steps away now. "But do we have a backup plan?"

Shark shoves the door open with his shoulder, hurrying to Hudson's kitchen and setting them down on the floor with a sigh of relief. He comes back to John, taking two of the three bags from his arms and helping him set them down on the counter. His arms are strong, a bit toned, but sturdy above all, his hands trustworthy as he lets the flour fall to the surface of the countertop. John hasn't been so intrigued by arms before. He hasn't really been infatuated with anything before. And here they are.

"Our backup plan," Shark finally responds, "is to eat whatever we can find. If we have to, we can go make a few trade deals in the underground, or take other peoples' food. If we're hungry enough, we can also take people. But you shouldn't really worry about that because I've only ever had to steal so far."

John nods, forcing himself to not think about the severity of Shark's answer. "How did you get food before I showed up?" he asks, and Shark pulls out a map from Hudson's cupboard and a marker from her drawer.

He spreads it out, and John notices that it's identical to the other maps he looked at just after they met. The only difference is that this one's blank. No marks, no ink or pencil. Just a map of London.

"We used to be more of a team," Shark says. "Lestrade, Mycroft, Hudson and I were so tightly knit you couldn't poke a needle between our threads. And we've all got our attributes. Brains from me and my brother, who also has government information, connections from Lestrade, who used to be a DI or something. Hudders knows all about drugs, dealing things, bargaining, manipulating. She's also a lovely companion when she isn't trying to mother me all the time."

John looks on as Shark sits in a chair, making a bright blue dot on the street where they met Adler.

"But things started falling apart. Mycroft started wanting to dominate every plan, looking over my shoulder all the time just because I'm his younger brother. Lestrade sort of stopped caring, and Hudders checked out of all the drama and kept to making food for everyone," Shark says, his eyes flicking over the map, bouncing between the blue dot from his marker and his finger, placed over Buckingham palace, and then Regent's Park, and then Bart's. "By the time you arrived, we'd already agreed to be less of a gang and more of just casual connections with each other. That's why I asked you to come to dinner. You looked interesting, and I needed to find an assistant that wouldn't drive me insane."

John scoffs. "Did you succeed in that mission?" he asks, taking the knapsack off his back and opening the top. He pulls out the cans of tuna for the dog and the smaller water container, filling the water bowl and taking the top off of the food can.

"What? Yeah, you're fine," Shark replies, taking a pencil and drawing light lines from the dot to many separate landmarks. "But, to answer your question, we used to use our strengths to plan. We had elaborate agendas to stay alive, because the only way to overcome a power difference is to outsmart it. We knew how to get what we need, when to do it, where to find it, who to get it from. Lestrade would be our scout. He'd go out and survey the area, scoping things out and reporting where the good things were. Mycroft worked the trade deals, with a bit of advice from Hudders if he felt like listening. And, if all else failed, they'd send me to go steal things."

John nods. "I see."

"Will you pass me the straightedge? It's to your right."

"Sure," John replies, taking the metal ruler between his fingers and handing it to Shark, who grabs it and places it along a part of the map labelled N Gower Street. His pencil lightly brushes against the paper as he follows the straight line with the tip of sharpened graphite. It seems to be manually sharpened, the edges rough and flat, sculpted with some sort of small, pocket-sized knife.

It's fascinating to John, watching Shark work. To observe him as he really, truly focuses, his undivided attention on that map alone. His eyebrows get a small crinkle between them, his bright eyes blinking and closing every time he needs to stop and think. And then they open again, moving to where they need to go, clicking into place. John wonders if Shark knows he's staring. He wonders if he cares.

"I'm bringing this up to the dog," John announces then, the water bowl in one hand and the fresh tuna can in the other. Shark doesn't respond. He doesn't move.

The dog is asleep when John gets upstairs. He sets the water and food down next to her and goes to sit on his bed, making the springs creak and one of the mutt's ears perk in her sleep. As he sits down, the exhaustion from the day finally starts to kick in, and he leans back against the wall and wishes he were asleep, too.

A crinkling sound from his bedsheets makes him feel a bit more energised, though, because that sound is coming from the three letters addressed to Sherlock Holmes. He'd almost forgotten about them. Thank God for paper being so fucking noisy.

Promising himself he'll be quick with this, he grabs the second letter and opens it, tossing the envelope to the side and whispering the contents aloud to himself.

-

11 November, 2007

My dearest Holmes,

I've been thinking a lot about you. I'm not ashamed to admit that you're taking up most of my headspace this week. It's come to the point where I'm not sure whether I want to kiss you or be you. Don't be alarmed at that. You know you're attractive. You must.

I wish you would reply to my letters. How do I know if you like them?

The government's starting to reinforce some of their plans. Have you heard? They moved the Queen to North America, and most of the police force, too. The radio went down the other day, too, but I can't be sure if that was intentional or because of the winds yesterday.

Thank you for coming last night. Come again. I liked it. I like you.

Yours,

Theo

-

So this Holmes had a gay lover.

Perhaps it was forbidden love. Maybe that's why he never wrote back. He didn't want to risk being found out. Perhaps Theo had a wife that might have read any letters that ever arrived.

But John still hopes, deep down, that Holmes wrote back at least once. Because it's like John to be invested in things. It's too easy for him to fall in, to become obsessed with something that has nothing at all to do with himself.

John puts the letter back under his bed and hurries downstairs, just in case Shark is keeping track of the time he's been in his room. He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, turning left, and left, and left as the stairway winds down to the ground floor.

By the time he takes a chair and sits next to Shark, the map on the stale, lonely table has been covered in light pencil lines, all connecting to or running through that one blue dot. John scoots closer, looking over his shoulder as he sketches.

Shark's right hand is gripped softly around the pencil, holding it like he would if it were made of glass. He seems to understand gentility. Perhaps it's engrained into all the little cells in his body, burnt into the atoms themselves, scripted into his core. Because gentle is what he is. He's completely soft once you look past everything that he puts in front of it to fool you into thinking otherwise. That's another thing about John that makes him interesting to Shark. He isn't fooled by the mask. For John is no fool.

"How's the dog?" Shark asks absently.

John glances over at him, but looks back at the paper as Shark catches him. "Sleeping."

"Hm."

Shark draws another line, and then another, linking them to all these different places with a common radius of each other and the dot. John's chin is inches away from his shoulder as he watches. He can smell Shark's skin, and he doesn't mind it, actually. He thinks it smells nice. It soothes him, making him feel surrounded by warmth and safety and security. He's probably a bit more focused on that than he is on the paper itself. Maybe.

Shark puts the pencil down on the table, sitting back in his chair and sighing. "Finished."

John sits back as well, trying to make sense of everything. "And?" he asks. It's all dots and lines to him. If Morse didn't make sense, this map would be it.

"And those routes are all the most possible places where the security camera was wired from," says Shark, his eyes fixed on the paper, John's eyes fixed on him.

"And why is that so important?" John asks. "We can't get the footage back; Adler's already seen it."

Shark rolls his eyes, turning back to John in preparation to knock some fucking sense into him for once. "Oh, Watson," he sighs, "you're far too hung up on Adler. She isn't important. Your focus is so pinpointed on her alone that you're missing what's right in front of you."

John glances back down at the map. "So what am I missing?"

"Cameras, John," Shark exclaims, tossing his hands out in frustrated excitement. "There are working cameras all over this hellhole! They work and they're being monitored and taped and they might be everywhere!"

"But there've always been cameras." John still doesn't get the point. He turns his hands out in a questioning shrug, silently saying, "So what?"

Shark stares at him for a few seconds. His mouth is shut, silent, his eyes blinking as he looks at the man in front of him. John's clever. How does he not understand? He must be pulling his leg.

John raises his eyebrows. "What?"

He really isn't joking.

"John," Shark finally explains, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, which it is, "the cameras are connected to little wires running about London. These wires all come from a source. There could be just one and there could be multiple. Regardless, this means..." He looks at him expectantly. "God, John."

"Don't say that."

"It doesn't matter. This is my private home."

John just sits there, unblinking and idiotic, his eyes going back and forth between Shark and his map.

"The government has been lying to us this whole time!" Shark exclaims, standing up off of his chair and pacing the room. He knots his fingers into his own curls, tilting his head back in exasperation. "John, for God's sake, London has electricity!"

The words leave a small echo in the little room, the truth sinking into both of them.

John's lips part slightly, his breathing shocked and shallow.

"Holy shit."

"Yes," Shark agrees, not really bothering to gain composure as he paces back and forth, from John to the far end of the kitchen and back. "Holy shit."

John stands up, his nerves sending something through is body that he hasn't felt in a really long time: excitement. It's all over him, radiating down to his fingertips and the very ends of each unruly strand of hair.

His voice is breathy as he speaks, needing extra effort to make it more than a whisper. "So London isn't actually broken. We might have hope."

Shark pauses his pacing, stopping right in front of him and gripping his hands tightly onto his shoulders. "Do you know what this means, John?" he asks, his voice tense and stressed, but in a good, exhilarating way.

[A brief interruption]  
What Shark left out of his  
dialogue so as to not piss  
off Watson:  
"Or do I need to explain this to you, too?"

John swallows. "Look, I don't like stealing..."

Their faces are inches away, the dim midday light shivering over them and swirling about; a river of sunlight over their dirty, blemished skin. They watch each other's eyes for a moment, learning them, studying the colour patterns, observing the pupils expanding. Shark's hands grip a bit more tightly on John's shoulders.

Knowing it's about time to finish his sentence, John does just that. His mouth opens, and, for a moment, is silent. Shark watches his lips.

"...but I think this is an exception."

The room is still, both of them expressionless for a bit. Neither of them really feel the need to look away, and neither really mind.

John's eyes are bright blue.

They're not like the ocean, or like the sea. Those expressions are extremely overused, and Shark knows they're never true. John's eyes are like any other set of blue eyes, but they're far more special just because they're his. Not because of the grey undertones or the way they compliment his lashes, but because they belong to John Watson.

"John..." Shark hears himself murmur for absolutely no reason, and, with a slap of embarrassment, decides to make the sentence appear to have an actual function. "Tomorrow, we'll get Mycroft and Lestrade. Inform them of the situation."

His hands loosen on John's shoulders as he pulls away, noticing how close their faces are and making another executive decision to fix that. John blinks, seeming to snap out of his little daze and nodding.

"Do you think we could all rewire a few cameras and bring the power here?" he asks, just for the sake of asking a question. He's not really wondering this at all, but he knows he should say something.

"I suppose," Shark replies, sitting back down in front of the map. "But what we should really do is to first find out where all the cameras are, and to then find the source. We could eventually take power from that. Much more efficient-"

"Boys!" Hudson's voice interrupts as she comes in through the front door. She sort of beats her knee-length skirt with her hands to get the dust and dirt off. "I've been out."

"I see that, Hudders," Shark mentions, giving her a sideways glance. "We've been in."

"I found some things you'll be pleased to see," she says excitedly, closing the door and walking over to them. She opens the hand-tailored satchel on the side of her hip and reaches in, pulling out a dirty little ball, and then another, and then another.

Shark smiles. "Oh, Hudson, you're a saint," he praises. "You've brought potatoes."

"Traded some socks for them," she explains proudly. "At first they weren't pleased with my offer, so I showed them what else is brought and was able to persuade them. It wasn't much; just some fabric, a kitchen knife, and an old toothbrush."

Shark pauses. "You gave them a knife?" he asks. "They might be unstable. They could go out and-"

"Oh, I didn't trade them the knife," Hudson laughs. "I only threatened them with it."

Shark takes a potato and helps her put them away in the cupboard. "Ah."

John points to the far side of the room. "We got you some more baking supplies," he says. "A lot of the flour spilt out on the way, but-"

"Oh, thank you, Watson," Hudson replies with a smile. "I really don't know what I'd do without you two..." She trails off, her eyes landing and resting on the map.

Shark inhales. "Right, yes, that," he says. "We have a lot to catch you up on."

"Are those supposed to be electricity lines?" she asks, walking over to it. John gapes at her.

"Well," he says before he can be shown again how much smarter everyone else around him is, "I'm gonna be upstairs."

"Fine, Watson," Shark replies, moving the map over to Hudson in preparation to explain everything. John turns to leave, but Shark remembers something and stops him.

"Oh, and John?" he asks. John turns to face him, meeting his eyes again. He breathes silently, reminding himself not to get stuck there like last time.

"Yes?"

Shark glances away, averting his gaze back to the map. He speaks hesitantly, and he clears his throat before he does.

"What's the, um..." He swallows. "What's the passcode to your phone?"

"Oh," John replies, taking half a moment to remember it, even though he knows all his passcodes by heart. "It's John."

Shark laughs. "Your password is your own name?"

"There were four spaces," John says in defence. "I had to take advantage."

Shark smiles softly at him. "Right."

John, feeling very, very late to his planned arrival upstairs, turns and leaves, stepping lightly enough to hear Hudson softly murmur, "Do you always call him by his first name?" to which Shark replies with, "Quiet, Hudson."

He reaches his room just in time for Shark to start explaining Adler, electricity, and their new dog. Bored out of his mind and not knowing what else he could possibly do with his time, John reaches under his bed and pulls out the last of the three letters. He's been saving this one for last. Like the others, it was written within the same week. It was written with the same ink, enclosed in the same type of envelope. But this one is special. Because there's still one very significant thing that sets it apart.

The difference?

This one hasn't been opened.


	12. Trust is a Funny Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see another angsty flashback. One can never have too many of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting might be weird coming straight from my Wattpad drafts. I hope y'all don't get confused.

Wind doesn't hit hair quite like it hit Teddy's.

It hit it easily, simply, not seeming to care about where it took it. The breeze was never violent with Teddy. Nobody ever was until Teddy was gone.

The wind would dance with it, each strand seeming to show off, to gloat. Look at me. I get to waltz with the wind. Sherlock Holmes would watch it sway, bow and bend, tracking the steps in his head. Not like that was special or anything; he tracked everything in his head.

Theo would wear his hair however he wanted to, not putting product in it but rather letting it fall wherever it so pleased. Perhaps that was why it got to jump around like that. Because it felt like it. It quite represented him. You can tell a lot about a person by their hair.

On the day the two of them met, walking into each other's lives as if they owned the place - which they soon sort of would - Theo's hair was parted on the left, brushed over the top of his head like dry wheatgrass, the sunlight weaving into it like it would if grass was really what it was. His eyes were the colour of exhilaration. His clothes were the colour of charcoal and blood.

Sherlock, on the contrary, looked like he always did, except perhaps a bit less broken. He was missing a few scars back in the day.

As he caught Theo's eyes, they seemed to share a secret. A quiet message between the two of them that only a quarter of the population really believed. Their gazes whispered it to each other, competing, discussing, agreeing, moving on. Their lips didn't move. Their voices made no sound. But it was there.

They both had one big thing in common.

In between all the traits, the habits, the way their eyes moved when they were talking to someone they loathed, the way they walked into a room, there was one far more obvious thing that they shared. A more relevant thing.

They both knew their worlds were beginning to end.

They weren't close to the end of the end quite yet. They were both very aware of this. The day, perhaps the entire month that they now lived, was the mere prologue. The introduction to what they wouldn't outlive. But they were here anyway, even though they had time. Because, even though they had some likely months left, they knew this market did not.

Sherlock stood in the aisle of canned food, a shopping trolley holding the weight of his elbows as he leant on it, looking through everything. There wasn't much left. The trolley was empty, the shelves almost bare. Hell, even he was empty. He barely gave a shit about whether or not he would eat. Everyone was bound to die soon in his eyes. He knew how people worked. He knew what made them disappear.

His gloved hand reached for the last can of green beans on the shelf, his lips grimacing a bit as he considered it. He never liked green beans, especially the canned kind. But maybe he would need these later.

He had promised himself this morning that this would be his last trip to buy food. He had already hauled hundreds of cans of salmon to his flat, storing them under floorboards, in the far back corners of cupboards, in bookshelves and boxes and drawers. So he had enough for the next eight-to-ten months, if he was lucky. That was, of course, assuming he kept it all to himself.

"Excuse me?" a voice seeped into his back from behind him. It was smooth, small and shy, one you'd want to reach out and touch with the utmost amount of gentility so as to not shatter it. Sherlock turned his head to face it, but said nothing.

The man in front of him was about his age, perhaps a bit older, his eyes deep and dark and cautious, his hair a black, roughly tangled mess. But a good mess. This bloke appeared to be Sherlock's personal favourite kind of mess.

"Would you be interested in some food?" He lowered his voice, glancing around. "I mean, I've got canned fruit, vegetables, meat, fish... I've even got cigarettes, if you're into those. I've got a lot that I don't really need. I'm sailing to Denmark, you see, and I need to get rid of it before I leave next year."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, not saying anything. He put the beans in the bottom of his mostly-empty shopping trolley and began to push it out of the aisle. Pretending that he had something important to do, he grabbed some milk in little cardboard containers and a few boxes of cheap biscuits. The boy kept following him, though, relentless. He wouldn't give up. Annoying little git.

"And I'm very good company. I'm sure you'd enjoy coming out to get food every week. You seem lonely."

Sherlock paused, his eyes blinking a few times, his feet planted on the fake tile floor. Because how could he tell?

"I'm not lonely," he muttered, taking a pen from a shelf and looking at it, pretending to be interested in adding it to his cart. "Being alone and feeling alone are very separate events, which I'm sure you don't understand because you're likely extroverted, as most annoying people are." He glanced in the man's direction, who didn't seem phased whatsoever at the remark.

"My name is Theodore," he said, holding out his hand. "You can call me Teddy, or Theo, or anything of the sort."

Sherlock looked at his hand and did nothing about it. "Holmes."

He pushed the trolley to the next aisle, reading all the signs and labels for where things used to be. They were all suddenly very interesting.

"I know what it looks like to be lonely," Theo continued, following him and grabbing onto he trolley to keep him from walking away. "I see it in the mirror every morning. I've learnt how to pinpoint it on people. Don't deny it. You're lonely."

Sherlock sighed and started taking his items out of the shopping trolley. He began walking away with them, only to be stopped as Theo ran in front of him.

Holmes gritted his teeth. "I'm not lonely."

Teddy shrugged, looking straight into him. "Denial is a strange thing, you know-"

"And it's not present in my behaviour. Now kindly step aside-"

"But you'll be hungry," Theo interrupted. "Oh, you'll be starving. And I'll have all this extra, uneaten food that I'll never even use. It'll just sit there as I sail away. I don't have anybody else to give it to. And I know you want food, because you wouldn't be here if you didn't."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to darken in the bright overhead lights. This person was the last thing he needed today. Because he was right. This made sense and it was convenient and could help keep him alive.

Theo's face was closer then, his lips being pulled into a smirk like a marionette, the luminescence of his eyes punching Holmes in the chest. He was interesting, captivating, luring.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock blurted out. Teddy blinked.

"Sorry?"

Holmes cleared his throat and swiftly made his way to the checkout aisle. "My address," he explained. "If you ever decide to find me to begin our deal."

Theo nodded, his smile intimidating, luminous, warm. "See you around, Holmes," he cooed. "It's been a pleasure."

"Has it?" Sherlock muttered. "I wasn't aware."

Theo shrugged, his movements silk on the white, commercial lighting of the building interior. He made his way to the automatic doors, nonchalant as he made them sit open for him, standing perfectly between them.

"I can tell you had a lot more fun here than you'd like to admit," he murmured back. "Come have some more tonight. Avenue Gardens, if that's your sort of thing."

Holmes heard the doors close, and glanced over to make sure Teddy had really left. Only then did he let himself look down at the floor, leaning over and trying to regain his composure.

That Theo was a very pretty boy.

He wanted to look at him more. To see him. And there was an offer for just that.

What was he getting into? He needed to stay home tonight. He needed to duct tape himself to the floor and nail his door shut. But dammit, that was too bloody complicated.

He needed to get ready.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

17 November, 2007

My Holmes,

Thank you for meeting me last night, and the night before, and the night before that. These past few days have been the best of my entire life. You've made me feel a certain way that I've never felt before, and I think I may never feel to that degree again. So, I'd like to tell you something. Knowing this letter will take more than one day to get to you, I'm enclosing the secret in here. On the night you read it, let me know in person. I assume we'll be meeting daily as usual from now on.

To keep things short and clear, here's what I have to say.

I love you.

Say you feel the same. And tell me you long me when we're apart. Tell me it's true. Do you f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶f̶o̶r love me?

Do you miss me?

Always yours,

Theo  
xxx

-

John flips the letter over, preparing to slip it back into the envelope when another small message scribbled on the back catches his eye. Reading over it once, then twice, and then again, things start to sink in.

Finally, something begins to click.

-

Regardless of what happens tonight, I plan to see you. Does 3 June, 2009 sound like a good plan?

-

3 June 2009.

John recounts the days he's been in London. His feet hit the ground here on 29th January, right? And it's been months since.

Doing the mental maths, John's fingers tap against his knee. He's not even doing this because he's drawn to the story anymore. He's doing this because it involves his home, his life, his safety and agenda. It's no longer a cute story about two people facing the end of the world. These letters have turned personal.

Finally finishing his counting, John tells himself to prepare for anything. Anyone.

3 June 2009.

That's in two months.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

I A M  
🄹 🄾 🄷 🄽  
L O C K E D

The phone gives a soft beep as it unlocks, finally letting them into the system. Mycroft looks down at the screen, even his hooked nose looking like it's scolding the password.

"His passcode is his own name," he observes. "How stupid."

No, you're stupid, Shark wants to say, but doesn't, because he's a fucking full-grown man.

Shark casts a sideways glance to the phone from where he sits on his bed. "Or clever," he debates. "Because one would think it's too obvious of an answer and never guess it."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "It's idiotic, brother. I don't know why you keep defending that man like he's your own child. All Watson is is a goldfish."

Shark rolls his eyes. "To you, everyone's a goldfish."

Checkmate. Shark says it with his eyes. He says a lot of things that way. Mycroft's just one of the rare people that's ever fluent.

Mycroft is, although callow, a very advantageous fit for situations with his younger brother. He's the only one that knows him inside-and-out, the only one who has the brains to deduce in him what he might deduce in others. The only person alive that knows every little aspect of the private life of Shark. He reads his eyes, his body language, his stress level, and he puts the knowledge to good use. Even his cold, rough stare proclaims it: I see you for real.

Mycroft seems to deepen his frown, if even possible. "To you, everyone's important," he fires back with a sigh. "Why is that? Are you developing emotion?"

"I haven't developed it. I've only granted it permission to show itself every once in a while," argues Shark with a deadpan sort of look about him. "The only reason we haven't let it out earlier is that we both have a critical level of mental disturbance from our youth."

Mycroft shrugs, knowing that's a good point. "Our childhoods were really... something," he agrees, sitting on the floor in a way that still seems miraculously dignified and twining a few wires together.

"How did our parents even still love us?" Shark half-jokingly adds. "We were complete arseholes."

But Mycroft doesn't get the joke. He, in fact, hasn't a sense of humour in the first place (not like the statement was fully a joke, though; it's completely true).

"Which reminds me," Mycroft changes the subject quickly, bending each string of copper around the other, twisting, tugging, twirling. "Do you know Morse?"

Shark squints. "A bit. Why?"

"Oh, probably nothing of your concern," Mycroft replies, "but there were dots and lines drawn out in the dirt this morning by your door. Love returns, I think it said. Not like that's too important. Probably a protest statement from a passerby."

Shark swallows, paranoia suddenly penetrating his spine, leaking inside, churning his stomach. He pretends he has no clue why this could be.

"Hm."

Mycroft finishes with the pieces of wire, and starts wrapping thick tape around what he's made. "On the topic of goldfish," he brings up, "where's your little fish? Watson, was it?"

Shark lays down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Still asleep, I think. We were up late training that... dog."

A smirk fumbles with the eldest' tight lips, not dating enough to touch his eyes quite yet. "Sounds like a tale of amusing qualities," he says emotionlessly, cutting the tape and making sure all the wire is covered by it. "Endear me."

"I don't think I'd like to tell you what happened."

"I don't think I care whether or not you want to."

Shark rolls his eyes, taking a long, hesitant breath.

-

"Grab her!"

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?!"

"I'll do it, then!"

Shark flailed an arm, desperately trying to get ahold of the darting animal. He missed, predictably enough.

John scoffed. "Yeah, smart move."

"Well don't blame me! You aren't doing a bloody thing!"

"Just wait for her to calm down."

"I don't want to wait. She's going to ruin the house!"

"What's here to ruin?!" John's hands went up in the air, his face getting a bit redder than it already was.

"The... walls, or something! Just catch her, for f-"

-

The door to the room opens, and Lestrade waltzes his way inside. Over the last two months, he seems to have become skinnier. More frail and fragile than Shark's ever seen him. He probably hasn't put in much effort to find food. That has never been his strong suit, after all. The food-fetching really isn't his division.

"Took your sweet bloody time," Shark grumbles, glad he's finally here so the dog narrative doesn't need to continue. "Thought maybe you'd died of starvation or gotten lost in the bottom of the ocean."

"Like you'd care if I did," Lestrade fires back, sitting on the floor. "Here's Watson? Hudson?"

"I told Hudders about everything yesterday evening, so she opted out of this and went to find more potatoes so she doesn't have to put up with all our melodramatic bullshit," Shark says. "Watson is asleep."

He knows this because he checked. Early this morning, he tiptoed up to the second floor, making sure to step on the side of the stairs so they didn't creak. He gently knocked on John's door, opening it when there was no response.

"John," he announced, stepping inside, "Mrs. Hudson made some fresh scones, and you should come to get one if you want them warm-"

But John was asleep.

What Shark should have rationally done was leave. But it was too early to think logically. So, not thinking of anything else worthwhile to do, he sat down, crossing his legs on the floor and resting his chin on his fist. And, innocuously, presently, he watched him.

John's hair had been growing out recently, and it flopped over his forehead as he slept, a few loose strands moving about as he breathed softly through his nose. He looked happier this way. Less scared, less hopeless. Shark studied his peaceful expression. He found it pleasing that he was so serene like this. The individual tendrils of hair fell in many different directions, some hitting his makeshift pillow and some not. This reminded Shark of something, and once he realised what it was, he mentally scolded himself and left.

He only imagines John is still like this now, calm, peaceful, dreaming of whatever you dream about when you're that breed of angel, that shade of cool, mesmerising fire. Lestrade looks at him expectantly.

"Well, get him then," he says. "Great flames, Sherlock; we can't wait all day."

Shark nods, sitting up and walking to the door. He turns and faces Lestrade before he really leaves, though, and clears his throat awkwardly.

"Don't, um..." He pauses, looking at the floor with shame. "Don't call me Sherlock in front of him. He can't know."

Lestrade's brows furrow. "What? Why not?"

But Shark has already left. He rushes gracefully up the stairs, sort of bouncing lightly across the boards as he ascends, but he becomes more quiet as he enters the room.

Some deductions about this room, for fun:

1\. There's an indentation in the farthest corner of the wall, and near that on the floor are four scratch marks, all close together. A heavy chair was there before the police raid.  
2\. John was up later than Shark. Who knows why, but there's an open journal by his pillow, something he didn't notice this morning. He was too preoccupied, probably, focusing on other things.

He now focuses on that journal. Creeping towards it, he crouches down just enough to be able to read the open page.

5 April 2009

When I arrived here, my escort told me not to trust anyone. I took his advice, but I think I finally found someone I trust. After all this time, I've finally warmed up to a real live person. Shark can't hide much from me now. I feel like I know him too well.

Me, on the other hand? I hide too much. I read three more of those bloody letters this week; the only ones I could get my grimy hands on. I read the unopened one. And I saw something on the back. It said that Theo planned to meet back here on 3 April 2009. I feel like telling someone, but I don't know if this is an actual threat, and it would also give me away.

This sucks. I suck. That dog sucks.

Sometimes I hope they send me back. But then I remember that there's at least one person here who I'd actually miss.

Shark blinks a few times as he processes everything that's carelessly scribbled down.

Love returns, Mycroft had said. Written in Morse on the doorstep.

3 April 2009. A promise to return.

Shit.

The thing, though, is that Shark can't reveal that he went and read John's personal journal, so he gets his stupid act together and creeps over to John, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder and trying to shake him awake.

"John," he whispers softly, reaching out to brush his hair away from his eyes but stopping himself as it dawns on him how weirdly intimate that would be. His fingers curl, his hand drawing back. "John, wake up."

There's a detached frown in response, a disengaged grunt of retaliation, and then John's eyes flutter open with a confused look at Shark. Damn, they're blue. So, so blue.

Shark doesn't know what to say, so he forces out a sentence, his hand still tight on John's shoulder.

"Good morning."

John blinks, turning from his side to his back and looking up at the ceiling and Shark. He gives a soft smile, still a bit stuck in the foggy, disoriented place in his head. The daylight sifting through the blocked windows makes the room glow with a deep, rich brown colour, like leather and silk. Soft, supportive, thick and flowing, circling through their bloodstreams and around the outlines of their bodies.

If this were a cliché romance novel - the kind Shark's mother used to buy from the bookstore near home with the topless men and ladies with a flowing red gown on the cover - Shark would realise all at once that he's absolutely enthralled with John Watson, the beauty of him, and everything that comes with it. He would accept that he's fallen in love again and forget his past, the moth landing on the flame as his lips would land on John's. And John would kiss him back, pulling him in and not questioning anything and everything being mutual and communicated and agreed upon without saying a word.

In a cliché romance novel, one of them would also, preferably, be a female. Which is somewhat beside the point. Because this is no romance novel. This is no fantasy one can escape to by reading letters on a page. This is real life, and it's awkward and realistic and different. And neither of them think they're in love. Neither of them would allow it.

John, slowly oozing into reality, blinks the sleep away from his eyes and glances around. "What's going on?"

Shark inhales softly through his lips, ignoring all the things he would say if he could. What you said in your journal matches something Mycroft found outside. Yes, I know you read the letters. I knew the whole time after counting them and noticing the stack was three short. Anyway, that was one fascinating man, that Sherlock Holmes. By the way, that's me.

But, instead, he states the obvious.

"Mycroft and Lestrade are here. We're having a meeting in my room. Come on in when you're ready."

John nods. "Fine."

And that's the whole of it. The entire exchange. Not cliché or romantic or revolutionary to their love-blocking mindsets. Just talking.

Shark goes downstairs. John gets up. That's all.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The Final List of Things to Accomplish:  
1 - (Mycroft) Figure out how to tap into the electrical wirings.  
2 - (Lestrade) Find needed supplies for this; scout the area. Go to Hooper and recruit her. We need her resources, and she could use us.  
3 - (Watson) Train that bloody dog  
4 - (Shark) Try to recruit Adler, or at least reconstruct the food deal  
5 - (Hudson) Stay out of trouble. Please.

The list is written on multiple pieces of paper back home, and John carries a copy with him as he follows Shark to go see Adler. The bicycles aren't anywhere to be seen today, so they're doing this on foot, walking in the middle of the dusty street as they go. John's getting more used to this by now, although he can't help but subconsciously fear the possibility of a car creeping up behind him.

He's become more muscular over the past few months, which he finds rather foreign. Obviously, he doesn't mind this. It's always been universally preferable for men to be like that. Not like looks should matter anymore; they can barely ever bathe at all, let alone look presentable. And appearance should be the last thing on their minds, given the circumstances of their lives. Although looks always remain the fifth or sixth thing on John's mind regardless.

Shark has been quiet for a really long time. He's usually like this, but this time seems different. He seems less natural today, and not just because of being socially overwhelmed. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight. Every little fragment of his body seems to be shifted in a random direction, awkwardly locking there. But John isn't worried. He knows Shark would tell him if anything was wrong.

Trust is a funny thing.

Sometimes it's beaten out of you, and you can't trust a single soul, a single voice or word, and sometimes you can't even trust yourself. Sometimes you watch too many people die in front of you and you think that no human being is ever kind or just or caring and that everybody just wants to kill someone. So you convince yourself that you're alone and that you just need to accept this. You tell yourself to carry the hell on and forget about getting close to anyone because they'll just turn on you when it's most convenient and skin you down to the marrow in your almost-hollow bones.

That's how John has been since Afghanistan, and, to this day, still is. But there's just one exception.

He actually trusts Shark.

He's a bit shady in a few places, sketchy in others, but so is everyone. They've been through so much together, as a duo, seeing gore and going on adventures and narrowly escaping death and never leaving the other behind. John's nightmares have subsided over the past short span of time, too, and he can't help but think that this has something to do with it. He feels, for the first time in a long while, safe around another person. And that's really special to John. It's a defining point of his life, a page delicately turning to a new act: his regaining of security.

So he knows things are fine. Fine enough where he doesn't have to know. And that's okay with him.

"How's the dog?" Shark asks, with the intent of taking John's mind off of him. He can feel him watching his movement. He can almost hear him fretting over it.

"She's..." John shrugs. "Fine." He doesn't mention that he's considered tossing her back outside for good at least five times this week.

"Picked out a name yet?" Shark prompts, crossing his bare arms and watching his feet walk across the concrete beneath him. John hesitates.

"I'm not sure," he replies. "I was thinking of Kiwi, maybe. She looks sort of like one."

Shark raises his eyebrows. "You think the dog looks like a kiwi?"

"No," John sighs, rolling his eyes. "Her fur, I mean."

Shark nods in understanding. "I see," he says. "I do like that idea. It's... cute."

John turns his head back to the street. He's heard Shark say cute. He really has seen it all.

Their shoes scrape against the sandy pavement. It's only about a three-kilometre-long walk to the shop, and they're almost there. John can't wait to get this over with. It's so bloody hot outside.

"36 St. Martin's Street," Shark announces randomly.

John turns. "Sorry?"

"The address of the shop," Shark replies. "Used to be some sort of café. Found it in a map of popular food places in London. They've got them all over the libraries."

"And?"

Shark shrugs, huffing out a breath of air and staring straight ahead. "I thought you might find that interesting. Or that it'd hit you with some sense of... nostalgia, or something." He bites his bottom lip, staring out into space. He doesn't usually tell John things just for the sake of entertaining him, so he isn't completely sure how to react.

"Oh," he finally says. "Well, I'm not familiar."

"Where did you grow up, John?" Shark asks, his skin shiny with a thin coating of sweat. John hesitates to respond, his mouth hanging open silently for a few moments before replying.

"All over," he says. "My father was in the military, you know."

"Hm," Shark replies. "I didn't."

"You didn't?"

"No."

John gives a laugh of disbelief. "Really?"

Shark rolls his eyes, his rude sense of modesty not really bothering John much but only making him realise how ignorant he can be. "I don't know everything about everything, John, no matter how much I may want to. It's quite closed-minded of you to think I'm some sort of superhuman, or some kind of supernatural entity that can read minds and see the future and the past. I can't read your soul, John. I'm not as special as you may think." He ends his trip on his soapbox by taking a deep, forced breath in and kicking a stray rock with his shoe.

John doesn't respond to this. He only takes it in, turning the words over in his head and reading them over a few times. So Shark can't figure out everything about his past. Just like he doesn't know much about Shark. And, for fuck's sake, they live together. They should know these things.

"What did you do?" John asks.

There's a confused beat of silence. "Hmm?"

"Before the drought," John clarifies. "What did you do? As a job?"

"I told you. I'm a consulting detective. I've always been," he says. "My payment was to get by. People would pay me in, for example, a lifetime of free food from their restaurant, or a discount on an upstairs room of their flat. Before that, however, before all of... this, I always wanted to be a pirate." He smiles jokingly at John, who gives a soft smirk in return. "But that was a long time ago."

Shark seems to turn away, even though they're walking next to each other. Something about the position of his shoulder seems to shield him from John's gaze.

They're quiet again until they reach their destination. John notices the address now, hung over the door in brass metal digits: 36.

They don't knock. They know their place. Punching the code into the keypad, they walk in like they own the place, which they basically do.

"I expected you'd constantly be here, Adler," Shark remarks as the two of them fix their eyes on a casual-looking Irene, sitting back against the wall and eating even more liquorice. It'll become her trademark soon enough, the dark, molasses-flavoured candy coating her tongue thicker than the words that spill over it. She looks smug as she watches them walk in.

"Just as I expected that you'd come back and try to bargain," she fires back coolly, keeping her composed stance as she looks up at them. She somehow holds more power, sitting on the floor like that. There's less body language to be had when you're so easily relaxed in your position.

"One share for us every month," Shark says, getting straight to the point, "or we'll just steal it ourselves."

Adler narrows her eyes. "If it's the same outcome, then why are you giving me the choice?"

"Because you're a control freak and I thought you'd at least like to have power over which you choose," Shark snarls, enunciating every consonant and staring her down, unblinking, unforgiving. "Now, which will it be?"

"I'm not giving it to you without the sex," Adler smirks. "I hate to break it to you, but there's no way out of taking my deal. Liquorice?" She offers the jar to Shark, who snatches it with a swift swipe of his hand and passes it to John. Adler's jaw sets, now feeling competitive at them both.

"We'll have to take some of your little belongings, then," Shark says.

Adler smiles. "Lucky you're around. There's no way that your live-in here could steal a mite of dust."

John coughs on the liquorice between his teeth. "Live-in-"

Shark shrugs. "He knows how to silently kill people, though, which is a plus."

Adler nods. "Indeed it is," she sighs. "Every time we cross paths, I'm always reminded that I should get another pet." Her lips morph into a small pout as she tilts her head, gazing at the wall. "Last few expired. About time to check out another."

"Fascinating that you keep losing them," Shark says. "How very telling."

Adler rolls her eyes. "Not my fault they died. We'll see how long you keep yours before comparing."

Shark takes a bottle of wine from the shelf. "Oh, certainly."

"You know, you'll have to pay for that," Adler mentions halfheartedly as Shark grabs a whole box of tuna cans.

"Right," Shark replies, deep sarcasm vibrating through his lips. "Good afternoon."

And they leave. John has almost shut the door behind them when a thin hand grabs it from the inside and pulls it back.

Adler's face peers out at them, blinking rapidly at the sudden dryness of the orange, dusty air. "I, um..." she begins sheepishly, looking pointedly at John. Her hand reaches out through the doorframe. "My liquorice."

"Oh, right," John says, and he takes out one piece and drops it into her bare palm, making her glower in his direction as they sort of saunter off.

Shark gives John a proud smirk as they walk back in the direction of their camp, his eyes looking absent still. But his expressions aren't the only one that seem a bit lost in the depths of his own head. John looks at the ground, lost in thought, his fingers a yellowish-white as they grip ever so tightly to the glass jar on his chest. They feed off of each other's silence, only seeming to become more indulged in their own as the other refuses to say a single word.

"Shark?" John asks, because something's haunting his mind, and he's too clever - in Shark's eyes, anyway - to let it go.

Shark doesn't say anything back, but his eyes are on John now, waiting.

"When Adler was talking about her... person," John says, thinking back and forth from the conversation to the resent moment. "She said something like, 'We'll see how long yours lasts.'"

Shark nods. "That she did."

There's a light breeze, and they're both grateful for it. It weaves itself over their sweaty clothes and skin, cooling them off just enough for them to notice. It's refreshing, although John is sure it's hotter than Hell regardless.

"Well," he says when Shark doesn't discuss it further, "um... What did that... What did she mean?"

Shark purses his lips. "Nothing of importance."

But he's lying. Both of them know it. John can see it clear as day.

Shark tries to keep his mind occupied. Not with the things he should be filling it with, like the morse and the letter and Adler, but with anything and everything else. Because he's scared of what he'll find if he thinks too much. He's terrified that putting the pieces together will confirm the one thing that's been circling through his mind since the day at the pool.

Shark knows the clock is ticking.

He's almost absolutely sure that he's going to die.

John can't know. He can't know now, later, or anytime at all. He can't know until Shark is already gone. Because telling him would only make him scared and sad and all those other emotions that average people feel.

He can't break John Watson.

He lets out a long breath of air, the stolen bottle of wine sleek and smooth in the left side of his grasp, the box of tuna cans rough and heavy on the other.

We'll see how long you keep yours before comparing, Adler echoes in his head. He wants her out of it. Because she's absolutely wrong in her assumption. She's not helpful or clever or right. She's a waste of space.

Shark isn't the person who'll be losing John.

John will be losing Shark.

Soon.

"You okay?" John asks, peering over at him.

Shark shrugs. "Yeah. I'm just... tiffed about her not taking our deal."

John nods understandingly, and Shark feels guilty for making him believe the lie.

A glass jar is thrust into Shark's vision, and he looks down as John holds it out. He's being kind, or sympathetic, or something. It's nice.

"Liquorice?" John offers, and Shark nods, passing the tuna box to his other arm and balancing it between his chest and the wine. He takes a piece and bites it between his teeth. The taste is mouth-watering, the sweetness of it filling his throat and leaving the taste of sugar on his lips. Even if it's only a temporary medicine, it makes him feel a bit better. It makes him feel like there are trees and plants and people that aren't insane. It makes him feel like he's a child, living in a world that works and isn't dying.

It makes him feel like he has more time.

He smiles weakly, and wishes it were only true.

"Thank you, John," he hears himself say.

John nods. "Anytime."

There's a web. There's always a web, everywhere. Between trees or blades of grass or corners where walls meet, you'll rarely find them bare. The moth has avoided so many webs so narrowly throughout the span of his short little life. He may be careless, and he may be lucky. But he's probably just careless.

Because he's hit a web. He's hit it and he's stuck in it and his wings have nowhere to go. It surrounds him as he flies on, only getting him into more trouble as he tries to get himself out of it.

It's over. This is it.

The moth begins to fall.


	13. And the Moth Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oop

«How the hell did I lose a friend I never had?»

-FINNEAS: I Lost a Friend

-

"Hooper?"

There's the faint sound of rummaging, scrap metal scraping against clay pots, and then there's Molly Hooper herself, peering up over the table she's been looking under.

"And you are?" she asks suspiciously, watching the man walk in. He looks very familiar to her, yet also quite unfamiliar, and he smiles softly in her direction.

"Moran," he says. "Sebastian Thomas Moran. But, if you're so inclined, call me Tom."

Hooper rolls her eyes, secretively brushing the dirt from her recently-relocated plants off of the table. She's glad she moved them before this stranger arrived. "First-name basis," she sighs. "Heard that before."

"Last one didn't go well?" Tom guesses with an empathetic pout. Hooper watches the pout, swallowing and noticing with a sudden jolt how attractive this man really is. Oddly enough, it makes him less creepy.

"Really didn't. He was one of those 'mocers. Tried to convert me. Terrible." She clears her throat, not sure why she's telling a complete stranger all this. "Anyway, how'd you find me and what do you need?"

"I asked around for Sherlock Holmes. People sent me to you," Tom explains softly. "Legend has it that this was the last building he entered."

Molly turns around, moving a box from a drawer inside the lab table and putting it on the counter. "This is a morgue, sir. It's the last place anybody enters."

Tom inhales sharply, too impatient to keep the coy friendliness up. "Look, I'm interested in some plants."

"Well, you're too late," Hooper informs him. "A whole gang was interested before you, so they're all gone. And I thought you were interested in Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm interested in a lot of things."

"Yeah?" Hooper closes the box, having to tuck the left corner of each flap in and keep the right corners out to close it due to her lack of tape. "We've got a lot in common then."

Tom pauses, giving a surprised laugh. "I... It seems we do, I suppose-"

"Is there anything else you need, sir?" Hooper asks sternly - an accomplishment for her soft personality - as she leans back against the counter. "I have a tent to set up and a kilometre to walk with it. You're taking up my time."

"Hm," Tom hums, looking around the room like a too-innocent-to-be-true child. "Sounds to me like you've made a significant deal. New living arrangement in exchange for the plants, hmm?"

Hooper takes out a new box, her anxiety pricking at the back of her neck. "Sounds to me like you're a bit too interested."

"Do you blame me?" Tom asks. "It's only like men to be interested in pretty girls like you."

Hooper shrugs. "Honestly, from what I've seen, that's not entirely true." She hands him a cardboard box, and it makes his body sag as she drops the weight into his arms. "Help me carry this out."

He's taken by surprise. But he has to do what he can to get through to her.

Gripping the box and marvelling at how she picked it up so effortlessly, Tom carries it out.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Hudders!"

"I'm here, boys! Don't worry. I just went out to make sure the windows were all still in shape - not like we could do much if they weren't..." Her shrill voice echoes up the stairs as Shark looks down them.

"Fine, Hudders," he replies. "Just checking."

It's John's first dust storm. And, so far, he's got no idea what to think. It's terrifying, the wind whistling as it screams around their flat. They were lucky to all be inside when it began, too. John can hear that it's nasty out there - not like he's experienced any mild dust storms to compare it to - but he's a little calmer with a bit of wine in his bloodstream.

Thank whatever's out there for wine, by the way. Be it luck or the universe or fate or plain chance (Shark will argue for minutes about why Heaven and greater powers don't exist and therefore won't be included in this thought), something led them to the right shelf today, and that same something let them get away with it.

It's red wine. Shark guesses that's the only wine in the shop. Probably best for cooking or something. As they make their way back to the farthest room down the hall, he refills the small glasses they've been using, handing one to John and keeping one for himself.

"Next question," he prompts, and John, already feeling his head fuzz from the first glass - or perhaps it was two - sits back against the wall.

They're sitting in Shark's bedroom, it being one of the warmest places in the whole building, a small space full of blankets and soft matter. Not like it's any good in here. It's just relatively fine, not gruelling and not heavenly, either. John thinks it might just feel this way because he isn't alone. He wonders if it only feels warmer because Shark's sitting across from him on his old mattress, handing him a refilled glass of wine and actually appearing to care about him for once.

"Okay," John says. "Um, what's your greatest fear?"

Shark purses his lips. "Can I pass?"

"Aw, don't be a chicken," John grumbles. "I'll answer it, too. It's not like... like you'll have to do it by yourself." He blinks, looking across the small space at Shark, who's keeping an eye on the candle illuminating the dark volume of empty air that surrounds them.

Shark looks down at his hands, absentmindedly licking his upper lip. He looks so breakable, so fragile and thin now that his guard is down. John likes it when Shark stops the façade. It always leaves at night, like he's a theatre actor coming home from a long shift, finally taking off his costume before stepping into bed. John likes to see him like this: innocent, weak, so... protectable. It makes him lovable as a person, which is a trait John hadn't really guessed was attainable for him.

"Fine," Shark says, drawing out the f in the suggestion that he considered turning the word into a different, more profane one. His eyes flicker up to John and then back down, and he takes a sip of wine before forcing the answer out of his mouth.

"I'm afraid to die," he admits. "Specifically, to die... alone."

His eyes are sincere as he says this, almost shameful. Because who is he to feel things like this? It isn't his place to be scared of anything. It's barely his place to feel. But he does, and here he is, revealing that he, in a sense, is just like everyone else.

John nods, not making much of a deal out of the realisation that Shark's greatest fear is one shared among many, instead of something brilliant and profound like never having world peace or genuinely enjoying Madonna's discography. Both probably come close, though, from what he's guessing.

But, in his head, John can't help but acknowledge how surprised he is that Shark's answer was so... normal. So ordinary and plain and predictable. It isn't something that Shark would say, simply because it isn't something a genius would ever think. And, yes, John considers him a genius. Even though Shark doesn't show it off much, his brain is a star in a sea of lightless voids, one bright thing in an wide expanse of black holes. Not empty or dangerous or manipulative, but rare and gleaming and extraordinary. And, in John's eyes, it's so luminescent that it shouldn't have anything in common with its surroundings. Nothing at all.

"John?"

John blinks. "Hmm?"

"Did you hear me?" Shark asks.

"Um, no," John replies, realising he's been staring absently at Shark's wine glass this whole time. "Sorry." He lifts his gaze back to his eyes.

"I told you to answer the question."

"Oh," John says, and his eyes travel back down to the glass again. It's a very nice glass, glinting in the soft candlelight and reflecting the light off of all its edges. John finds it satisfying to look at, and so he watches it as he responds. "My greatest fear is being lonely."

Shark nods. "Not death?"

John shrugs, noticing now that it's him that has the less-predictable answer. "I've become desensitised to it," he explains, taking another small sip of his drink and gazing down at it. "I've accepted it for what it is and I've almost welcomed it into the grand scheme of things. If you can't avoid it, you might as well befriend it."

Shark nods, watching him speak. Their heads are foggy from the alcohol, but it helps drown out Shark's arrogance and fear of what's to come, along with John's mask of apprehension, stripping them both down to the very essence of who they are. They don't care about keeping up a reputation or making sure they don't look like fools. They're genuine now, untouched, unshakable. Like children that never really grew up, never went to war, never lost love.

"I've made friends with loneliness for the same reason that you've made friends with death," Shark says, breaking the silence. Not like he felt it was awkward. It was a nice silence.

John shifts in his seat, making fine progress on his glass. "But loneliness isn't unavoidable," he says. "Not everyone is lonesome."

Shark's eyes narrow. "Do you really think it's possible to go your entire life without any loneliness? Even if it's just for a second?"

John shrugs. "Well... I suppose not..."

"I suppose it's harder for you to comprehend, given the circumstances," Shark says, "but I've been lonely almost my entire life. I've had no other choice. If I had never let the sensation into my life as if it were a friend that'd make itself disappear, I'd have blown my own brain out years ago."

John nods, setting his empty glass on the floor. "What a beautiful oxymoron," he says. "Making friends with your own loneliness."

Shark tips his head. "Perhaps," he considers, "but the only problem with it is that, once you're around them enough, you become your friends."

His eyes drift over to the candle. John gets the sense that what he said is important in some way; a clue into his extravagant, inexplainable head.

"So, if that's true," John says, "soon enough I'll be the lonely one and you'll be the dead one."

Shark smiles weakly, swallowing and tapping his first finger against his glass. "You'll be surprised..."

The alcohol begins to kick in a bit more, it being at least half an hour since they opened the bottle. John moves and lays flat on his back, next to Shark so he can still watch his face as he talks. He needs to keep tabs on how he's feeling. And, since he never says his emotions aloud, John knows he'll just have to watch for them.

"You said you were lonely," John mentions, wondering if that's part of the reason things have seemed off lately. "Are you still lonely now?"

Shark sighs, not liking the question but answering it anyway, since John wants to know him better because that's how people work.

"I'm always lonely, John," he says. "Like I said. Loneliness has become of me. It's permeated the essence of everything that I am. Because there's always some sort of relationship I'm missing out on. Always someone I miss." He clears his throat. "Of course, having you around helps. But I still don't have it all, and I'm sure I never will. And that's fine. I've accepted it. It's the curse that I willingly host."

The mattress is thin and flimsy against John's spine. He can feel the springs and the frame, and wonders how Shark can get any sleep around here.

"I feel lonely, too," John tells him, watching the candlelight paint itself across the ceiling as Shark downs the last of his glass. He doesn't pour any more, though; they've both consumed enough to be more than tipsy, and they're saving some for Hudders anyway. "When I think about the war, I feel isolated and hopeless and that I should be the dead one. Outliving someone who died in front of your own eyes, especially one you cared for, is one of the most terrible things imaginable."

Shark nods. "I know what you mean."

John frowns up at him. "That's what everybody says," he sighs. "But nobody ever means it. Because they never truly understand."

Shark's eyes seem to flash back to something, getting the unique glint that eyes do when they're reminiscing. Except he looks a lot more pained than someone simply looking back on a casual memory. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, black velvet, almost lost in the rush of sounds around their exterior walls.

"I do."

John is surprised at this. His eyes open from their drowsy, drugged state and look over at Shark again. He's hopeful. Because Shark may be the first person to really understand.

"Really?" he asks, almost breathlessly.

"Unfortunately."

Unfortunate, yes, but still good for John. Maybe they understand each other more than they may think. John isn't completely alone in this. The trauma, even the PTSD might not even be something he has to bear all on his own.

He begins thinking aloud now, not having much of a filter anymore now that his thoughts are all jumbled. But he doesn't mind sharing. Everything seems fine to him. He feels fine, even. Fine and good and warm.

"Out of all the people in London," he says slowly, his hands laying across his stomach, rising and falling with his breath, "who would have thought that I would find someone like you?"

Shark pauses, tensing up a bit as he looks down at his flatmate. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're safe, you're sane, you know how to get around without bloody dying, not to mention you're pretty damn smart-"

Shark laughs, and John furrows his brow.

"I'm serious."

"I know you're serious."

John continues. "You're somebody that helps me stay alive, someone that keeps me from delving into the pit of despair, and, above all that, in a vague sense, we just might share the same pain."

Shark shrugs, miraculously unfazed by the sudden monologue. "I mean, I guess..."

"I never expected to come across anybody like you," John confesses. "I thought I'd run into an insane killer, which I suppose I have, but I thought I wouldn't survive it if I would. Who would have predicted me finding you?"

"I would."

John doesn't reply to the remark, and keeps going, projecting his stream of consciousness to the ceiling and whatever the hell below it that's in earshot. "I mean, the expectation of even finding a sane person like you would be incredibly flawed. Of course, I'm flawed to begin with-"

"Not much-"

"-but, God, was I lucky."

John finishes speaking, not really caring much about what Shark thinks of all this, but just glad he got to rave for a bit. He can't remember the last time he spoke freely for an extended amount of time. It's therapeutic, soothing, relieving.

"What is flawed, John," Shark finally responds, "is believing in luck. Luck is a myth, a made-up assumption that there's some sort of fate or destiny beyond us. It's more of a probability, like a flip of a multiple-sided die. So, no, you aren't lucky. The term doesn't mean anything of truth." He sighs, tinkering with his empty glass a bit before finally and permanently setting it down. "However, I'm flattered that you think that way."

"Are you, now?" John asks, lifting his head up off of the old, flattened pillow beneath it to study Shark's face. "Seriously?"

"When am I ever one to kid, John?" Shark replies sarcastically. His face is a bit red, but maybe it's just the lighting. "Yes, you flatter me. Quite often, actually."

"Oh," John says, taken aback by this as he rests his head back down on the pillow. "I... well... Good."

"...Good?"

John shrugs, his body feeling warm and calm and fuzzy. "Yeah. I mean, It's good you're flattered by what I say. If I never intended to flatter you, I'd never say it."

Shark takes a pause, puckering his lips in thought and looking out ahead of him.

"Have I ever flattered you, John?" he asks.

John thinks for a while. "I don't think so, no."

"Hm," Shark says, and he moves so he's on his back as well, pressed against John so they both feel even warmer in the cold, dry room. The wind has died down a bit, still whistly as it hits the building, but not quite as loud. Tomorrow, Shark knows, there'll be sand and dirt all over everything and it'll look like it snowed. It's the closest thing to winter that they've got.

"Well," he finally says, "I love your eyes."

John blinks. "You do?"

Shark nods. "They're so... I don't know. It's like the entire universe is orbiting around them. Your eyes themselves are a blue Jupiter, hugged by the rest of the entire galaxy. Do you know what I mean?"

John looks a bit sheepish, not quite knowing what to say. He ignores the fact that Jupiter isn't even bloody blue in the first place and decides to imagine it is. And the thought of it does sound pretty, swirling and changing like slow water, and so it really is flattering. "Do you really think so?"

"I always think so. I've just never say it because I'm never intoxicated."

"Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm."

John focuses on the warmth of Shark's skin to distract himself from the cold air around them and the screaming wind outside. He breathes, and then hesitantly asks:

"What else do you stop yourself from doing when you're sober?"

Shark laughs a bit. "I could show you, but I think you'd run off screaming."

But John doesn't care about the warning. His brain is foggy and lopsided and probably saturated with wine, so he doesn't give a shot about what he's about to see. "I don't mind."

"Don't you?" Shark asks with a tired-sounding pause. "You sure?" He props himself up a bit on his elbow, his hair flopping off his forehead as he looks down at him. His eyes scream "You don't wanna know," but John also sees playfulness behind them. The kind of playfulness where he can tell whatever it is doesn't have that terrible of an outcome.

"Oh, come on, you git. I'm supposed to be getting to know you today, remember?" John reminds him. "I want to know what's inside of that silly old head." He giggles, and Shark smiles faintly down at him in return.

He looks at his eyes again. The dim candlelight doesn't show off all the stars he imagines inside, but it still manages to do him justice. All the little fragments of those eyes replicate the early-morning sky, and possibly everything beyond. You can get lost in them if you don't dig yourself out soon enough.

And, this time, since he cares less, Shark doesn't bother digging himself out. He doesn't even consider it.

He falls in.

It happens so briefly that they both later question if it even happened at all. John feels Shark's lips against his own, gentle and innocent, his eyes closed for the brief, heavenly moment before he pulls back. He looks down at John, calculating.

At this point, there are two possible outcomes:

1) John liked that  
2) John did not like that

In the case that 2) is the state of the current situation (which is more likely yet admittedly less favourable), Shark already has some things lined up to say. But he hopes he doesn't have to use them, so he only watches.

John, meanwhile, is taken completely off-guard. His breath is short and shallow, a bit wary about what just happened but mostly just confused.

Did he like that?

Complicated question.

Maybe.

Okay, never mind. Yes, he fucking liked that. It was refreshing and exhilarating and good.

And so John introduces a new outcome. One that hasn't even crossed Shark's mind yet:

3) John is still deciding and will therefore instigate a repetition of the act to decide.

John sits up, quickly but softly, a sense of urgency about him as his hands travel to Shark's awaiting face, one moving to his neck and another moving to his hair as he pulls him in, moving their lips together and rather liking the fact that the only thing he can taste is wine.

Shark melts into him, into the bed, into everything, finding himself flat on his back again and John leaning over his body, breathing heavily as he deepens the kiss. Shark's arms travel to John's shoulders, his torso, his thighs, bringing him closer as best he can. He's surprised. This is all very unexpected. Unexpected in the best possible sense of the word.

So, again, thank whatever's out there for the wine.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Good morning, John."

"Is it, though?"

"Does your head hurt?"

"It always bloody hurts, but yeah."

He pauses.

"Also, shut up."

They're doing a good job of beating around the bush. Of course, their memories are a bit smudged, but not even close to foggy enough for them to forget what caused John to be sleeping horizontally across Shark's bed - and across him, by the way - with slightly swollen lips that aren't even close to throbbing as much as his own head.

They seem to address the situation so casually, pretending it doesn't exist.

Shark clears his throat. "I, um... How did you sleep?"

"Right, then," John says, quickly sitting upright and tensing up as his head worsens. "We are not talking about last night."

Shark nods. "I was also going to suggest that."

"It was all because we were drunk," John clarifies as if they've got an audience.

"Purely experimental," Shark agrees.

"No emotional attachment whatsoever," adds John, and Shark pauses.

"Okay, I might have to go ahead and call bullshit there, but-"

"No emotional attachment whatsoever," John says again, smiling and hissing through his teeth as he speaks. Shark nods.

"Yeah. Right. Yes."

John's head throbs, the sensation sharp and prodding, and he curls his knees up to his chest as if that will help at all. Shark is silent for a long time, his head not hurting quite that bad, and he turns his head to the side, watching John sitting in anguish for a bit until his gaze rests on something else.

"God damn it, John, the candle burnt out," he exclaims. "We never put it out."

John only has enough self-discipline to look at the pile of cooled wax on the floor, more than half of it spilt over the edge of the saucer. He squints his eyes shut, his head only seeming to worsen as he sits. Each breath he takes is painful.

Shark gives a soft chuckle. "You must have been having a fun time, then."

And, as if that sentence is the worst thing he's ever heard, John turns and vomits all over the bed. Shark quickly moves his feet and jumps up before it soaks through the sheets.

"Jesus, John," he says, and then smiles. "I take it you didn't like my joke."

John feels too shitty to even process the words, let alone react to them. He rushes to the nearest receptacle, which just happens to be a large glass bowl in the kitchen full of biscuits. He dumps it out onto the table, not bothering to keep any from falling off as he leans over the now-empty bowl and heaves into it. Shark watches him, knowing not much is going to come up since the last time either of them has eaten anything worthwhile was probably a few days ago.

And then a new question arises. Even though Shark has lived in this environment for years now, this is new. He diverts his attention back to the bedsheets near him, the sour smell of them beginning to prick at his nose.

How the hell do you clean up soiled sheets?

Shark is surprised by the question, even though it came from his own head. And he has no idea.

Ignoring the throbbing of his own head - which really isn't that terrible but still very present - he grabs the sheet, holds his breath, and races downstairs, making sure nothing spills over the edge of it.

"Hudson!" he calls. "Hudson!"

There's no response, and, upon entering her kitchen, Shark sees a note on the counter.

Gone out. Getting more potatoes.

"Oh, for God's sake-" Shark mutters frustratedly, rushing the sheet outside and dropping it next to the front step. He stares at it for a bit, knowing very well that someone might steal it, but not really caring since it's full of hangover-induced emesis. Only a hollow-brained bastard would want a sheet that someone's been sick on.

He sighs, turning to head back in, when something catches his eye.

On the ground is a piece of paper. He recognises the hand and the ink. Even the paper itself unpleasantly jars his memory a bit.

On the paper is more Morse. Like he hasn't had to decode enough of it already.

-.-- --- ..- / -.-. .- -. .----. - / .-. ..- -. / ..-. .-. --- -- / .-.. --- ...- . .-.-.-

He decides he's got no time for this. Taking the paper inside and knowing fully who sent it, Shark closes the door and promises himself he'll read it later.

He doesn't.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The firelight drains their faces of all colours except for the bright yellow that radiates from its flames. It's been almost two months since they kissed. And, as they decided, they haven't talked about it since. They've both thought about it, though, a lot, with multiple mixed emotions, but kept their word and never said these thoughts aloud.

In fact, things have been surprisingly normal. Shark has been stealing from Adler every week or so, often with her watching, and Mycroft has been working on the electricity plan. Hooper, though mostly absent, has been providing plants and trying to find a way to collect safe water. And tonight, for the first time since she's been recruited, they're having a meeting.

Kiwi sits next to John, alert as she looks around and watches everyone. She's been taking training well, and isn't completely unbearable anymore. Shark sometimes wishes she were a cat so they wouldn't have to house train her, but cats can't catch food or protect one from anything. They're cats. So he's decided she's... fine.

They've gathered at Park Crescent, the most secluded part of Regent's Park, away from all the tents and the lunatics inside of them. Hudson has brought some of her scones, and she passes them out to everyone as Mycroft explains something terribly boring about wiring and how they could somehow hook up a generator and potentially provide electricity to a lot of the city. Shark is barely listening. He's focused primarily on something else. Something in his hand.

-.-- --- ..- / -.-. .- -. .----. - / .-. ..- -. / ..-. .-. --- -- / .-.. --- ...- . .-.-.-

He's had this piece of paper for the last eight weeks, never really bothering to decipher it. It's almost pointless trying; he knows who sent it and their agenda. It's from Moriarty, obviously. There shouldn't be a doubt about it.

So, now that he's bored out of his mind, he unfolds the little piece of paper and matches the symbols to the letters he's tucked away in his head. He's almost charmed by the message he decodes, giving a dry chuckle as he finishes reading the translated sentence.

You can't run from love.

Scoffing down at it a bit, Shark sighs and reclines in his worn-out camping chair, putting the paper back into his pocket and pretending to listen to what his brother has to say.

'You can't run from love,' he mocks in his head. Of course I bloody can.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

\-- . . - / -- . / --- -. / - .... . / .-. --- --- ..-. / ..-. --- .-. / ... --- -- . / ..-. ..- -. -.-.-- / -... .- .-. - .----. ... --..-- / .- ... / ..- ... ..- .- .-.. .-.-.-

"What's that?" John had asked earlier, peering over Shark's shoulders at the message scribbled out on note paper in his hands. Shark had folded it up, sticking it into his pocket and turning away.

"Nothing of moderate-to-severe concern," Shark replied. "But we have somewhere to go."

So now they're here.

They stand on a rooftop, looking out over the run-down, dusted-over city of London. John is confused as to why they're where they are, but the view is absolutely astonishing, and he absorbs it. It's beautiful, even though it's in ruins. It really puts into perspective the kind of world they're living in. It looks a lot worse than it is. For them, anyway.

The wind is cooler up here. The difference, probably, is that there's actually wind in the first place.

Shark's jaw is tense, the edges of his eyes a bit crinkled as he looks over everything. He seems nervous, and John assumes it's because of the height. They're on the roof of Bart's bloody hospital, after all.

"John," Shark says, sounding a bit detached. John looks over to him to see his phone cradled gently in his hand. "I thought you might want to take care of this."

"Take care of it?" John asks.

"Well, I'm sure you're sick of me doing it myself."

John looks at his hand for a while. The phone looks so small in it, so delicate and crushable. Reaching out, he silently takes the phone, admitting to himself that it's true that he'd rather carry it around on his own.

"Did I ever tell you that I consider you a candleflame?"

John furrows his brow. "Sorry?"

"So bright, so inscrutably full of life in the darkest situations. I'm drawn to that, you know. Fire," Shark takes a deep breath in. "I've always been. It's happened before, and it happens every day, every second that I'm around you."

John is getting a bit suspicious, but he can only stand there and absorb the words he's hearing. There's nothing else he can do to understand them more or put a stop to whatever this is. He is suddenly aware of his own breathing, realising that he may be beginning to panic a bit.

"It's because I'm a void, John," Shark continues slowly. "I'm empty. See this?" He pats his chest with his hand. "There's nothing here. There never was. Everything about who I am is empty and cold and dark. So cavernous that nobody's dared to go in and stay there."

John crosses his arms over his chest. "So you're depressed."

"I don't know, John," Shark replies. "It's hard to tell. Because, really, what is depression? Sadness doesn't have an international measurement. It's an intangible thing that varies between person to person. One only thinks they're sad if they used to be happier. It is, indubitably, only based on the relativity of their personal experiences. So, if I'm depressed, I would have no way of knowing. Because I've always been like this. It's who I am. It's what I've become."

Shark ends the sentence with a forced exhale, as if saying all of that exhausted him. John doesn't know what to say, so he just stands there. He takes this moment to study Shark, his face, his stance and his figure. He has the odd, chilling sense that he should, and carefully so.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

John meets his eyes. "Sorry, what?"

"My real, full name," Shark explains, shamefully dropping his eyes to the concrete beneath his feet. "That's the whole of it."

John's panic level rises. His palms begin to sweat, his breath hitching in his throat. "Sorry, what on the face of this planet is going on? Are you alright? Are you... diseased? Insane? Dissociating?"

He's met by Shark's guilty eyes. He immediately knows this isn't a game. Not a trick or a joke. Because when is Shark ever one to kid?

"I misled you, John," Sherlock admits. "I'm the dangerous one. I'm the intimidating monster you need to stay away from. And I understand if you'll never forgive me for this, but I truly am sorry."

John only stares at him in shock.

Sherlock's eyes look glossy, wet and fragile in the soft skylight. "I promise you I am."

Am I safe? Why is he confessing everything on a rooftop? Is he going to kill me? What the hell is going on?

John takes a wary step back. "So I've been running from you this whole time? Wha - Why are you telling me all of this?" he asks. Knowing that the man in front of him is the one person he was told to avoid is bad enough. The circumstances only worsen it.

"In roughly fourteen minutes you will leave this building. Do not stay inside. Go directly home. Then search your pockets. I've put something in them that'll help you when you're ready for it." Sherlock instructs, his voice monotonous, scripted, emotionless. Just like how he describes himself to be.

Now John has a new thought. Maybe he isn't going to die.

Maybe Sherlock is about to.

Sherlock checks his recently-repaired watch and leans to the edge of the building, looking down. "Ah, just on time. Here he is."

John's eyes widen as Sherlock looks at him, his eyes red and wet. "He's so punctual. It's insane." He forces a laugh before adding, "He won't touch you. Don't worry; he isn't that brain-dead."

"What's happening?" John chokes out, fear tightening his throat. "What's going..." He trails off, his eyes wide.

"John, I want to feel like you really know who I am," Sherlock says, "just so I don't regret everything I've ever said to you. So, can you do something for me?"

John feels frozen. He's paralysed, unable to move or even be moved. "I..."

Sherlock walks over and puts his hands on John's shoulders. Even when they're terrified, his eyes are still beautiful. So alive.

"Call me by my name," Sherlock requests. "My real one."

John nods. "You're, um..." He pauses, almost afraid to say it, because then he'd have to admit it out loud, which is so much more real than admitting it in his head. "You're Sherlock."

And, for some reason, even if it's only for a fleeting second, that makes everything seem okay.

Sherlock's face crumbles a bit, but he tries to keep it together. For John. Because he can't scare him any more than he already has. His grip tightens on his shoulders, his teeth biting his own cheek to keep himself from breaking down.

John is pulled into a tight hug.

And, somehow, it's more intimate than John has ever been with him. The contact is far more personal than any intoxicated kiss could ever be. They grip each other like their lives depend on it, which they might, their breathing being their only movement as they have to start coaxing themselves into eventually letting go.

"John," Sherlock whispers, "I hate to scare you, but I don't know for sure what'll happen today."

John swallows and hugs him tighter. "Well, I forgive you. For... everything."

"You're my best friend, John."

"You're-"

They're interrupted by the sound of the rooftop door swinging open. They hear it hit the wall next to it and bounce back, not closing. Sherlock can only suspect somebody's standing in the doorway.

Somebody being Moriarty himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the familiar voice chimes out. "I didn't know I was interrupting something so... so delicate."

Sherlock lets go of John, turning to see Moriarty exactly where he earlier predicted him to be.

"Good thing I arrived in time to prevent you both from shagging, though. I'd get incredibly jealous." He steps forward. "Theo would have to intervene."

Sherlock grits his teeth. He hates this.

"Do you ever think about him? Because you should. Leaving him to bleed out in the street. It was incredibly painful, you know."

"You did it to yourself, you useless scrap," Sherlock hisses at him. "It was your choice to swear in front of the police force."

"And it was your choice to leave," Moriarty fires back. "It was also your choice to become attached to a character that never existed. All this suffering is basically your fault."

Well, of course it's his fault. He's been telling himself that since the seventeenth of November, 2007. He's been beating himself up about it for sleepless nights on end. And all over someone that was never really alive to begin with.

"Why are you doing this?" he's able to force out of his mouth. "Why do you do the things you do?"

Moriarty shrugs, walking slowly forward until he stops within arm's reach of both him and John. "I'm a sadist," he says. "Pain makes me feel high, really. So I cause it because I can. I'm sure you can understand. Drugs kept you from putting a bullet through your own head during your entire adolescence, if my stalker-ish research is correct."

John can't convince himself to move. Because what would he even do if he could?

Part of him thinks that this is no big deal, that it'll be like last time, with a big, melodramatic set of plot twists and surprises just so Moriarty can leave. But Sherlock's face and odd behaviour convince him otherwise, of course, so half of his mind is stuck arguing over it, making bets on something that one with a good moral compass probably wouldn't bet on in the first place.

The other half of his mind is putting the pieces together. Moriarty. Theo. Bleeding out in the street. All of them connecting to significant things he's been exposed to recently. All this just gives more context.

"Not if it's my own pain, though," Moriarty continues. "I'm really sort of a hypocrite in that way." He lifts up his shirt and points to a large circular scar in his abdomen. "See this? This was not fun."

Sherlock nods. "I wouldn't think so."

Moriarty puts his shirt back down and catches Sherlock's eye with his own. "Do you have any idea how that feels? Do you even have the depth to understand how gruelling it is?"

Sherlock swallows, shaking his head. "No," he says anxiously. "I don't."

"Hm," Moriarty hums in reply. He sighs, and before John can even tell what's going on, a knife has appeared in his hands and then left them, the blade cushioned between flesh and blood. Sherlock hunches over in pain, and Moriarty turns on his heel and begins to leave.

"Shark," John hears himself whisper. "Oh, my God. Sha - Sherlock."

Sherlock painfully eases himself to the ground, lying down on his back and breathing quickly through the panic and the pain. John runs over to him, kneeling down and feeling himself begin to hyperventilate.

"Don't worry, John," Moriarty coos from behind him as he makes his way to the rooftop door. "I'll come for you in no time."

But John barely hears him. He kneels over Sherlock, whose eyes are wide and dilated, terrified and defeated. He doesn't know what to do. Years in the army and he has no idea how to help.

"John, you have to go home," Sherlock pants, staring up at him.

But John can't move.

He sees Cole beneath him. He sees him dying alone, scared and isolated as he bleeds out onto the ground. And he can't let the mistake of not being with him happen again.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is having flashbacks, too.

He's becoming Theo. He's getting what he deserves for leaving him to die on his own, even though he never existed. He feels the pain. Agony rips through his stomach, his diaphragm, his skin, his spine. He wants to pull the knife out, but he knows that'd only make it bleed more. It'd only make him die faster.

And he's afraid to die. Specifically to die alone.

"This isn't happening," John breathes. "This isn't real."

And, somehow, Sherlock feels shocked and detached enough to hope that's true.

"John," Sherlock whispers, choking up as he stares up at him. "He got my gastric artery."

John shakes his head. "No," he decides, his voice thick with trauma and anger and fear. "No, he didn't. We're going to go home, and... and you'll be okay. All of this will disappear." He's beginning to feel dizzy from hyperventilating. His fingertips feel numb, staticky, cold.

Sherlock swallows. "I'm going to bleed out."

In a cliché novel, John would tell him he loves him. He would tell him how fantastic he is and how he never thought of him as an empty void. He would tell him about how he saved his life and how he's the smartest and bravest man he's ever known and how he has to live. But, again, this is no novel. This is real. It's so real that John has a hard time understanding that it's actually happening. So all he can do now is panic as Sherlock begins to go unconscious. All he can do is breathe.

"John, you have to go home."

John opens his mouth to speak. It takes a while for any sound to leave it, though.

"No," he argues. "I can't. I won't."

"John, I'm going to go unconscious, and then I'm going to die. You need to go home and protect it from anyone that's heard the news and wants to come to ransack it."

"But..." John's sentence is delayed as he's interrupted by a sob. "But you're scared of dying alone."

Through the pain and the agony, Sherlock forces a weak smile. Because of course John cares this much. It's only like a flame to make sure everything is light like this.

"Aren't we all?"

"You can't do this," John breathes. "You can't... leave me. Us. Everyone. You have to live."

"John."

John sniffs. "Yeah?"

"John, I want you to pull the knife out."

John is overwhelmed by his own silent sobs. He bites his lip and tries to control them, focusing on Sherlock's eyes.

"I can't."

Sherlock swallows. "Please, John."

"It'll only make you bleed more."

"I know."

He's being brave. He has to be brave. Brave and strong, for John.

John grasps the handle of the knife. His hands shaking and his breath wavering, he gently tugs it out. Sherlock gasps and calls out every once in awhile, clenching his teeth and squinting his eyes shut. There's a small suction sound, and the bloodied, dripping knife finally comes out and settles in John's hands. He can't help but notice the sentence 'I've been waiting to do this' carved into the side of the handle.

Sherlock is in too much pain to say anything else. He writhes in place, squirming and clutching his stomach as he bleeds through his shirt, groaning and whimpering and crying out. He's sweating profusely, and John, finally accepting that there isn't a way out of this, reaches out and takes his hand.

Sherlock grasps it tightly, his movement calming down a bit. His breath beginning to slow, he looks up at John's face, his vision quickly, progressively starting to blur. Even his skin looks like a flame, lighting up his vision until it's the last thing he sees.

Theo told him that he'd bring down a piece of his star for him.

Sherlock can only guess that the piece he was talking about was John.

John stays there, sobbing quietly as Sherlock's body becomes limp. He stays there for minutes, watching the only motion of his body being the constantly-growing pool of blood. It laps at his knees, spreading to his shins, dancing across his knuckles, and he knows it's time to go.

He lets go of his hand. He kicks the knife because he despises it with every atom in his cursed body.

He picks up the piece of paper resting in Sherlock's other hand. It's the same piece of paper that he'd hidden from him earlier today. Scribbled out in Morse across the top, John reads the sentence that started this all. And he hates it, too. He hates everything.

Meet me on the roof for some fun! Bart's, as usual.

John swallows, crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it off of the roof. Stupid. So stupid. This is all so stupid and he hates it.

John realises numbly that there's nothing else left to do.

He leaves.


	14. To Die Was an Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a letter from the late Sherlock Holmes.

For John Watson  
[read in the likely case  
that I die near or on the  
roof]

There's a definitive line between Heaven and Hell.

The moment you start questioning which one you're inside, you know it's Hell you're dealing with. Because you don't question anything if you're in Heaven, apparently. You just sort of sit there and exist. Like a brain-dead, halo-bearing fairy. Like a vegetable, for lack of a more socially-acceptable term.

Earth is - hypothetically, and in my personal opinion - a middle ground. The purgatory of whatever rubbish you people gobble up in your places of worship. If you're like me, and you're not good or bad, you're stuck on this planet for the rest of time.

However, if you were to ask, I would argue that neither Heaven nor Hell exist at all. If they do, they only exist on this planet. Hell on Earth is where I've been for the last twenty years, and it seems you can only plunge deeper down.

Both places, however - Heaven and Hell - are a figment of the human imagination, created only to provide a source of stability when thinking about death. People get so scared. So easily penetrable, so pathetically fragile that they let fairy tales rule their heads until they die and get put into an urn instead of floating away like they claim they do.

Myself, for example: I know for a fact that I won't fly into the clouds. I am one hundred percent certain that the only thing that'll happen to me is some sort of disposing. If it does turn out to be true that a spirit and a brain are separate entities, then I'll likely be damned in the sense that I'll be stuck here on earth. Because I'm no angel, and I'm no demon. My wings are neither black satin nor swan feathers. Mine are fuzzy and earth-bound. I've got the wings of a moth. So when I do die, God knows nothing'll happen to me. Nothing at all. There'll be such an absence of happening things that I'll be driven insane even after I'm dead.

You know this, John. You've always known this. And you still think I've gone to Heaven? Bullshit.

I may be out of your life, but that certainly doesn't mean I'm not here.

This, of course, is what you should know in the case that I "die" on or near the roof of St. Bart's, which is outcome number forty-seven. News flash: it won't work.

So, to sum this up:

Get your bloody life together. Open your eyes.

My most sincere regards.

~SH

-

John sighs. Obviously Sherlock is dead. This letter is only false hope.

This was the thing Sherlock had left in his trousers. This was the thing that's supposed to help him when he's ready. So when the hell is it going to change anything?

He's done with this. He doesn't want to discard it, but he still doesn't want to see it. It reminds him too much of Sherlock. It captures him perfectly. It makes it seem like he's in the other room. But he isn't, and he never will be again.

John folds up the note, creasing it with his fingernails and deciding to hide it away from his own eyes.

He puts it in the back of the kitchen cupboard.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

John has been eating less.

Food is tasteless these days. Even more tasteless than it used to be. It makes him feel sick. He sees no point in it anymore. Eating doesn't energise him or taste any good. So he's sort of given up on it.

He eats when Hudson tells him to, though. He eats for her because she's the one person he still cares enough about to please. But, without her, he'd be close to dying. Because why work so hard to keep yourself alive when you have so much to die for?

He provides for Hudson, too. It's been a few months since Sherlock's death, and Adler has been giving him free food. He supposes it's like a pity gift; something she's only doing because she cares just enough to know it'd be a douche move to pretend she's not involved and can't do anything to help. So John walks those few kilometres every so often, takes a sack of food he'll end up giving mostly to Lestrade, Holmes or Hooper, and drags himself back. It's a numb routine for him. So, so numb...

Adler refuses to give him any wine. She says it'll turn into an unhealthy obsession. She says that if he really wants it, he'll just have to steal it. And she knows he won't steal it because he's too nice. So, anyway, fuck her.

Truth be told, Watson has no idea how to heal.

He hasn't healed before, and he isn't healed now. All he can do is sit in his chair and stare out through the cracks between the boards over the windows, watching the light fade out and in with the hours. And all the while, he thinks about him.

His smile, his laugh, his demeanour - all things that one should look back on with fondness - haunt him. They replay on a loop in front of his eyes, never stopping or showing mercy for him, even when he cries or shuts his eyes or goes to sleep. Sherlock even follows him to his dreams.

Who would have thought that his army dreams would end? He never did, but he had always imagined the event being happy and freeing. He never expected the nightmares to go and be replaced.

He used to think he was the luckiest person in the world. Lucky for surviving a gunshot in Afghanistan, lucky for escaping his family, lucky for finding the one person that could help him get better. But now he's the last person on the long list of lucky people. He's the loser of luck; the one who can't hold it in his hands for too long before losing strength and letting it fall.

Letting Sherlock fall.

Now, all that he is is a burden. Some useless thing that was never meant to live but did because Fate made a mistake. That's what he's become. It's what he's turning into.

No wonder Holmes was so cold, so closed off from love. He'd been hurt by it. He'd learned that it's best to take the preventative action and never accept it in the first place. It turned him into the void he so sadly described himself as. The void that John's beginning to be.

John isn't going to let anybody else into his life. He'll only end up losing them one way or another. Nobody lasts forever, and, in his eyes, neither does love.

Not that he loved Holmes. All he ever did to suggest that was kiss him - and, admittedly, he did do a few other things - but that was just because they were drunk. Sherlock was just a really special connection; one that can't be replaced. One that will never come back.

"It's possible he could have had it planned out," Lestrade abruptly suggests, breaking a piece of stale bread in two - quite like how his voice breaks its unwelcome way through John's thoughts and into his conscious mind - and handing the other half to Hooper. "He knew it was coming. He could have found a way out of it."

Holmes is quiet. John suspects he's too busy grieving for his own brother to engage in conspiracies. His frown lines deepen, his hooked nose pointing extra far downward.

"Watson says he got his gastric artery," Hooper replies disappointedly. "He watched him bleed out. He watched him... die."

"Watched him die, did he?" Lestrade asks, giving John a sudden odd look. "Never told me that."

John stays silent. If he says a single word, he'll end up in a spluttering, sobbing mess in the floor. And he can't do that in front of them. Hudson sighs and shifts in her seat across from him at her table, shaking her head in sadness.

"Shame," she says. "He was such a good soul. It's a surprise that anyone would hurt him like that."

Lestrade furrows his brow, staring straight at John's blank, dead eyes. "Yeah," he says, a bit absently. "It is."

Hooper clears her throat, pursing her lips and changing the subject. "I, um... I think I figured out how to filter the salt out of the river water."

Hudson forces a soft smile. "Oh, that's lovely."

Hooper nods. "Yeah," she says quietly. "It's a simple filtration system that you could all make in your own homes. I've got a whole experiment in my old flat with all these different sizes and quantities made out of all the things I could find in dumpsters and alleys. I'm quite proud of it. You should... come see it sometime, I guess."

Lestrade isn't really paying attention though. His eyes are still fixed tightly onto John, his mouth turned a bit downward at the corners. "Did you ever see this... this Moriarty?" he asks slowly, and John looks down, trying to avoid the question. He wants to avoid everything about Sherlock in general.

"You describe him as some sort of antithesis. I'm intrigued to hear more about him," Lestrade continues, "since none of us ever have."

A bit of anxiety tugs at John's already-pained stomach. Lestrade keeps interrogating, though, his suspicion beginning to be contagious. Hooper turns to look at John, too, her face wearing the same expression of sudden, sickening realisation.

"Odd that Holmes himself never even mentioned Moriarty," Lestrade says, forcing a fake laugh. "It's almost as if he isn't real. But, of course, it was like him to never mention trouble, for fear of..." He narrows his eyes. "...looking endangered." The words fall out of his lips like liquid nitrogen, steaming up and swirling around, catching everyone's eye and making them look. John wishes he could hide away. This is too much. He's bound to burst soon.

John shifts in his seat. He swallows the accumulating grief from his throat and feels it replace itself with crippling anxiety. And, because he can't stand another second of this, he stands up.

"All of you, have fun with your... bread," he says weakly. "I'm going to be in my room, um... training the dog."

They watch him leave. That's something everyone actually has in common here.

John's footsteps are so lonely going up the stairs. He's noticed that lately. Just one set at a time ever goes up or down them, and they're always his. No extra gait to accompany him; no stomping of black dress shoes as an old companion races him upward. No laughing or jokes or adrenaline. Just John. Him and his left foot, and then his right, and then his left again, the sound of the steps hollow and dark and deep and on their own.

He doesn't remember exactly how he got here, but he's on his back on his mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Kiwi is asleep next to him, and he strokes her ears as he loses himself in his thoughts. She makes the loneliness easier. Animals have this special, magical way of helping everything. He wishes he didn't need that magic.

Does Lestrade think he really killed Holmes?

Does Hooper?

Does... everyone?

He wonders what'll happen to him if they decide that he's the killer. That John Watson is James Moriarty. They might throw him away. Feed him to the wolves. Toss him out to the Swings or the Scraps or the Sniffers or - God forbid - the police.

"Oh, Kiwi," John sighs, because she's the only thing he can talk to, "What's happened to everything?"

He feels her soft, wet nose on his neck as she rests her head on his collarbone. He feels like she understand. In fact, he's completely convinced that she does.

A Fact You May Find Useful:  
Moths have almost every right to be afraid of love, and that's why they don't feel it. A moth doesn't have love. It mates once and it dies, just so its offspring can do the same. It doesn't stay with another moth or become attached. It isn't its nature. It's not its purpose. Love is trivial to a moth. Just like it's trivial - terrifying, even - to John.

John sighs.

You said that you become your friends, he thinks to Sherlock, staring up at the old and damaged ceiling and pretending he can hear him. Well, look at me now. I'm you. Fascinating that I didn't start changing until you left.

"Watson."

He's alerted by Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway. John sits up, accidentally shoving Kiwi off his shoulder and forcing her to find a new sleeping spot.

"I didn't kill him," he murmurs weakly. It's pleading. He's pleading. Please believe me.

Holmes takes a deep breath in. "You know, he told me he thought he was going to die. He said to keep you safe. So I'm sure you weren't the one behind it. He... cared about you, rarely and surprisingly enough. And who on Earth would care for their own murderer?"

You'd be surprised, John thinks, but he doesn't say it aloud. It'd only weaken his own case.

"So why didn't you tell everyone that I didn't do it?" he asks monotonously, and Holmes shrugs.

"Then they'd think I did it."

And, with the same oily, sly swiftness of which he entered, Holmes oozes out the door.

As of right now, John hates him. He just doesn't have the energy to recognise it any further. Thinking is just too time-intensive. Moving is exhausting. Even being alive is so indescribably draining to him. If he could, he'd curl up and sleep until his death. Then he wouldn't fear dying or loss or loneliness. Because, in a sense, he'd escape from all of them. The only thing that'd follow him to his dreams would be Sherlock himself.

Speaking of Holmes, you may be  
wondering what happened when  
they were drunk.  
Many things.

He doesn't like to admit it, but that night did bring them closer, even if they both decided there was nothing behind it except for intoxication, loneliness and the overpowering part of human nature that drives us all to find love.

But it was pointless. They got close just do they could break apart. And now John has become his own fear. He's lonely.

Even Hell would be better than this. Because at least he wouldn't be alone there.

Or, perhaps, like the letter said, Hell is a human construct made to describe Earth. Honestly, John finally starts to understand the emotion behind that.

"No," he whispers to himself. "We can't think about the letter. We can't mention it. It doesn't exist."

He doesn't even really know what he means by "we".

He doesn't know what he means by anything. Or what anything means.

He eventually falls asleep. He'll be disappointed later to find himself awake again.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Her footsteps are silk against the rough, calloused floor beneath her. She sways, quite purposefully, her eyes looking back to see if she's caught the right sort of attention from her new assistant. Unfortunately, she hasn't. She's always a bit startled to remember that people can be straight. It seems like almost everyone she's around is desperately in love with her all the time. This'll take some getting used to.

Knowing for sure that she wants to be at least noticed by her new helper, she speaks.

"Can you believe him? He thinks I'm helping him for free just because his friend died."

"He does seem like the naïve type," her assistant remarks, "from what you've told me, at least."

"Aren't most men the naïve type, anyway?" Adler replies, leaning gracefully against the wall. "From what I've learnt, women are much more..." She shoots her a suggestive look, but she isn't watching. "...deep."

"I've met many shallow women," the assistant disagrees innocently. "I've been mad at far more women than men, too, so I can't say I agree."

Adler purses her lips and sighs. "Is he all chained up?"

"Oh, yes. For the last several minutes."

Adler nods and takes her whip from the corner of the empty room. She saunters down the hall in her forced state of grace, her hips swinging as she gets into character - not like she's ever really out of it.

"Come back for another payment visit?" she asks softly, closing the door behind her. A man kneels before her, silent, his head bowed to the floor. Adler plays with the whip in her hands, bending it and preparing the leather for its duty of bruising, reddening, slicing his skin.

"Quite charitable, what you're doing. The poor man thinks he's only getting food because I pity him." She sighs. "But, of course, that's like him. We both know it well."

"He may be naïve," the man whispers, "but at least he actually cares when his friends die."

Adler swallows the insult, feeling it claw its way down her throat. "Are you asking for me to pull out the spiked whip, or are you going to cooperate, hmm?"

The man pauses, and eventually decides to change the subject. "You haven't been providing him with any wine, correct?"

Adler smiles. "Look, I may be a terrible person, but I'm usually not one to disrespect requests. I give people what they want. Unless it's him. I'm not giving him a single damned drop. Because I don't like him. He doesn't deserve an escape. He deserves raw pain." She whacks the whip through the air, making an echoing snap as the frayed end hits the floor.

The man whispers inaudibly back. Adler leans down, pointing her ear to his lips. "Repeat that?"

He takes a deep breath, his hands clenching in their chains as he prepares himself for the impact of the whip against his skin.

"I said," he repeats, "You... repel... me."

Adler laughs. "Oh, you're a real bastard, Mr. Holmes. A bloody... genuine bastard."

"You're not too lovely yourself, Adler," Holmes remarks, shifting his position on the floor. "Although I'm sure you're already aware, are you not?"

"Well, I am now," Adler growls. "You're gonna get hell for this."

Holmes chortles, his mouth turning up into a wide grin. "I've already been to Hell, Adler," he says. "In fact, I'm living it. So do get a move on; I've got a flatmate to protect and two years left to do it."

"And then what?"

Holmes furrows his brow. "What do you mean?"

"After two years. What next?"

Holmes stares at the floor. He can see her shiny black heels in his peripheral vision. They glint, their reflection almost impossible not to watch out of pure fascination.

"I'm coming back," Holmes finally replies. "And he'd better be ready, because we've got work to do."

"Hmm," Adler says, now suddenly uninterested.

The whip slaps against his spine.


	15. Stuck Like Tin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John enters a room he doesn't want to.

"You can't ignore it forever, John."

John stands in the bare kitchen, looking blankly down the hall. It's been three months since it happened now. Down to the day. It's the third of September, and he still feels as cold and dead as he did the first time he came back to a Holmes-less house, a mess-less kitchen counter, a Sherlock-less silence. He still feels as lost as he did when he sat on his bed with his best friend's blood on his knees. He's lost. Too lost.

There isn't a single thing wrong with what he's looking at. At least, there shouldn't be. It's just a bloody room.

But it's his bloody room.

Sherlock's.

John almost expects Holmes to walk out of it, groggy from a half-night's sleep, caffeine in his blood and circles under his eyes. He'd say something like, "Good morning," and John would ask how late he was up and he'd say "I was up so late that I was actually up early, not like that's your business. Why do you ask?" and John would reply with, "You look like shit," and he'd smile and say, "I know."

But he doesn't. For the last three months, he hasn't.

So, no, John doesn't want to go in. Because he's afraid of finding it empty. He's terrified of knowing that it's real, that it's true and that it's one-hundred-percent certain that Sherlock Holmes is one-hundred-percent dead. And he's not ready to see the room empty.

"Just open the door and step inside for a minute or two," Hudson coaxes sombrely. "It may be therapeutic."

John clenches his jaw, staring at the rusting doorknob. "Therapy never works on me."

Hudson shrugs. "Probably because you're too concerned with keeping your guard up to let it work in the first place."

John closes his eyes and sighs. He'd reply with a proper "Fuck you," if he was speaking to anyone except for Hudson. He wishes it could be someone else so he wouldn't have to so heavily censor himself.

Hudson stands next to him, looking at the lonely, untouched door. She folds her arms over her ribs, watching it and observing John's watching of it, and leans against the wall with a motherlike authority about her.

"You do this all the time, John," she says. "You stand here and stare at that stupid door. It'll help you to just go in."

John shrugs. "I don't stand here that much," he replies quietly, but he knows that how often he stares isn't the point Hudson is trying to convey.

"You do stand there quite often, considering you only knew him for two years," Hudson points out. "He was like a son to me. I loved him like my own. And it still hurts, and I still cry sometimes. But you're different. You're handling it differently, but in a bad way, and I think you're too afraid to let go, John. I think you're just... stuck."

When John doesn't reply, she puts a comforting hand on his back, reading his face like she's the mother he wished he had when he was younger and alone. Sadly, she's a good twenty-five years late.

"Go in, Watson," she says softly, patting his back and turning around. "I'll be in my kitchen. Come down later if you'd like to have biscuits."

If I'm forced to eat another biscuit or scone, I'm going to throw myself out the window, John thinks to himself, but what he says instead is "Sure." Because he isn't going to tell her that he's eaten so many of her baked goods that he'd rather live off of half-eaten canned salmon that's been personally licked by the dog for the rest of his life instead. One just doesn't disrespect Martha Hudson with that little empathy.

He hears her footsteps slowly descend the stairway, and John is overcome with a sense of relief. Because she's right. She always is. He just can't stand having her see his face as he admits it.

He feels like his joints have rusted over. He can't bend his knees or move his legs. They're locked in their positions, stuck like tin. Stuck, in a sense, like John himself.

So it's almost painful to move them. He's slow, guarded, irrationally terrified of the dysfunctional bond he'll be more strongly reminded of the closer he gets. But, through the agonising anxiety and grief and sorrow, John Watson takes a step.

That wasn't so bad, he realises, and soon enough, he finds that he's taken two steps, and then three, and he's halfway down the hall before he even has time to overthink it.

His hand reaches forward for the copper doorknob, so close that he can taste it in the back of his throat before he even smells the slowly-deteriorating metal rubbing off on his fingers. And he tastes another thing, too: something he remembers tasting the moment he stepped back onto the streets of London.

Fear.

He's really fucking scared.

John takes a breath, his fingers finally joining with the doorknob and curling themselves around it, which is an action he never really consciously approved but still isn't going to try and stop. It turns almost on its own, like he barely even has to try and do it himself. Perhaps it was only waiting for him to be there and it'd open up by itself. Maybe that's what people are like. Perhaps that's why it was so easy for him to be pulled into Holmes's life, and why it was so simple for Holmes to be pulled out of his.

The door creaks as it slowly moves, exposing just a crack of the room as John has only given a half-assed attempt at swinging it open. He stiffens up, closing his eyes for a few moments and hesitantly pushing it farther with his foot. He opens his eyes.

He feels fuzzy. He has the premonition that he's about to feel an immense amount of pain and the adrenaline is momentarily numbing it. His heart feels like television static. He blinks, surveying the space.

Just like he predicted, Holmes isn't here.

And so the signal reconnects, and the pain comes.

His breath is knocked out of him, and he involuntarily wheezes as he sinks to his knees, giving a light whimper as they roughly hit the hardwood floor. His eyes are jammed wide open, unblinking, unmoving, as he stares at the wall, the violin, the bed.

He can't move any farther in. His knees are fastened to the floorboards with the same rust that kept them from touching it moments ago. He's cemented between the rotting planks of the doorway, captive to its dry frame. He's breathless, choking, helpless. It's real now. The reality is finally inescapable.

He's alone.

Feeling his eyes become wet, the salt from their corners running down his face, John tells himself that this can't possibly be the worst thing that's ever happened to him.

He invaded Afghanistan. And he isn't going to let another death get in the way of his life.

Although it's harder to put that thought into action than it is to simply declare it to oneself. So he gathers his breath and decides to roll with the punches. He's experienced grief before. He knows it'll only be a matter of weeks from now before he starts to feel more normal again. He'll just need to wait.

Part of him never wants to feel normal again, though. Thinking of forgetting the grief makes him feel guilty; like he's forgetting Holmes. And he doesn't want to forget him, or have him know he forgot him. Even though he's dead and gone, John still doesn't want to let him down. He still feels like he's there. He can even still smell him in the room.

His knees begin to hurt, and he gathers his breath and bones in one arm and his strength in the other. He needs to be a soldier today. He has to be strong.

Watson stands up, his hand tightening into a fist and then letting go again. It's a habit that's recently come back with the nightmares as a package deal, and he's definitely noticed its presence. He's not too thrilled about its return, but he's not too thrilled about anything anymore, so it's nothing out-of-the-ordinary.

What isn't ordinary, however, is a little off-white corner of a piece of paper in his peripheral vision. Turning his head in the direction of where he thinks he saw it, John sees it again.

He knows what it is.

Hidden on a shelf in the bottommost segment of the barely-intact side-table, wedged gently between a book about physics and a journal of some sort, is a collection of envelopes.

His eyes dance over them, almost in disbelief.

I know you, he thinks to them.

Bugger off, they would think back if they could.

He wonders how he didn't notice them there before. Have they been sitting there this whole time, in plain sight?

Or did Holmes put them there so he'd find them?

Regardless, Holmes is dead.

And, disturbing as it sounds, these words suddenly have a new meaning.

Holmes won't care who reads those things if he's gone. In fact, nobody will. Because, as of right now, John is one of two people that know about their existence. The other person that does is probably busy eating people and planning to eat John, too. The letters are likely the last thing on his mind.

John feels like he's got a right to them now. Besides, it isn't like anybody will miss them. And he can't just throw them away. Because, like an outstandingly clever man once said, "I haven't thrown any letters away because it's like I'm throwing him away, too. You never want to disrespect the dead."

His hands grasp around the pile of them. There are six in total addressed from Theo, stacked in chronological other from twelfth November, 2007 through the sixteenth, and then the one he failed to steal from the tenth.

He sits down on Holmes' mattress, feeling all the related memories travel through his head in a slow-dancing motion, lingering in some places like smoke and fleeting away in others like water. He doesn't try to block them out or repress them; he knows he'll never stop grieving that way. And, since he's sitting here so he can read some corpse's letters, the only reason he's even in this room at the moment is because of memories. It'd only be self-contradictory to think they're unwelcome.

Taking the first letter he hasn't read from the stack, John opens the flap and takes out a folded piece of paper almost identical to every single other one ever sent.

-

12 November, 2007

You should have seen the crowds at the shops today. There was one last restock from overseas, apparently. Everything we're getting after this will have to be local, which is ironic, considering we won't be able to grow plants for too long. Somebody should really get on that.

I got lost in the crowd. I suppose I was looking for you. And then I saw you! Well, a version of you, at least. Looked exactly like you except for the nose and chin. Said his name was Sebastian. I told him how much he looked like a good friend of mine and we had a good laugh.

I do wish it were you behind that identical coat, though. So let me indulge tonight. Come over. Usual spot.

Yours,

Teddy xx

-

John bites down on his bottom lip, hoping he can distract himself from the pain of his loss with the pain from his teeth, though it doesn't really work. He's often read it in books as a common fix for overwhelming emotion, but it's frankly far from it.

He tells himself he can't read any more.

Evidently, it's almost physically impossible for him to put the letters down.

-

13 November, 2007

My Holmes,

I must say, you're utterly fantastic.

I hope you're enjoying your rations. Meanwhile, I'll enjoy my memories. I'm hoping we can make some more. Do let me know.

I can't write much more because I need to go out, so I'll end here. See you around?

Teddy xxx

-

When John notices he's somewhat jealous, he decides it's time to stop reading. Because he can't let irrational emotions control him anymore. Then he'll only hurt.

But, deep down, John is incredibly envious of Jim Moriarty. He's envious of all the time he got to spend with Holmes. Not with Shark or Billy Scott or William, but Holmes, in the flesh, unguarded, raw and genuine. He's envious of how close they became, even though it wasn't truly real. He's envious of this version of Sherlock being alive.

"Watson?" Hudson calls from the ground floor. John hears her shoes shuffle up the stairs, but he doesn't exactly notice them. He's staring at the letter in his hands. He becomes completely absorbed into it, studying the fine curves of the reddish-brown ink on the off-white paper, cream and ivory and raspberry-chocolate. It's lovely, complimented by the flawless cursive hand.

No wonder Theo was so easy for a philophobe to fall in love with. He painted himself as a beautiful piece of art. John notices that killers are the best artists, whether it's themselves they kill or someone else. They're so meticulous with their life that they know how to make anything beautiful. They make artwork from the blood they spill. They make it into a masterpiece. London is just their museum. The drought is their brush.

"Earth to John Watson," Hudson's voice leaks through his contemplation. "Can you hear me at all?"

John takes a breath and looks up at her. She doesn't seem annoyed, but she does seem empathetic, her brows almost unnaturally furrowed as she stares at him through the floating dust.

"I can hear you now," John replies. "Sorry, I was just..."

Hudson hands him a biscuit. And now he has to eat it, dammit.

"You know, I never expected you'd actually come in," Hudson says, sitting down next to John on the mattress. "I thought you'd be there in the hall for the rest of your life. But I'm glad you decided to face all this."

John painfully takes a bite of the biscuit, feeling it crumble in his mouth and dry out his tongue. "You know, it's odd," he says. "I feel as though I'm learning more about him now than I did when he was alive."

Hudson smiles, putting a comforting hand on his arm. "I know," she coos. "There aren't any secrets left to keep anymore, are there?"

John nods in agreement, folding the letter back up and slipping it into the empty envelope. "Did you ever know Theo?" he asks, avoiding her eyes for fear that he might succumb to their honesty and admit how much he wants to cry.

"Well," Hudson answers with a tip of her head, "I met him a few times. Sherlock brought him over. But I never really got to know him, no. It was a shame that he was gone so soon after he arrived in our lives."

John nods. He understands completely. He knows how that feels, down to the very roots of the words.

"He was pleasant," Hudson continues. "I must admit he wasn't my favourite of the few men that boy brought home, but I didn't dislike him. The one problem was that I got the sense that he was a troublemaker, really. And I dealt drugs for a living in my younger years. Take it from me; I know when someone's no good." She sighs and looks out at the rest of the room.

"There were others?" John asks - surprised that she was in the drug business but deciding against prying - and he's irritated that his tone is coloured with envy. He convinces himself that he's only curious. Which he is.

"Oh, two or three, maybe," she says. "None as lovable or permanent as you, although I'm guessing you two never got very far."

"What-" John begins to ask, but he's interrupted.

"He was more confident before you, and that's likely the reason he never tried to get closer or make any moves. He was broken by that time, and healed in the wrong places, like scar tissue. That's all he wasn't. A scar," she explains. "He thought love was pointless. Told me himself. He said all it ever does is end. And who am I to say no? Love's never stuck with me. Not the romantic sort, anyway."

John clears his throat. "So he was really..."

Hudson gives him a quizzical look.

He pauses. "Um... gay."

"Oh, I don't even know if he ever subtly fancied any girl he saw in his life," she laughs. "And all his lovers were very good-looking. How could he not be?"

John looks at the floor. "So..." He takes a breath. "So when he..."

He doesn't finish his sentence. He just thinks it. He thinks about the night with the wine. He thinks about how protective Holmes was of him on the first night by the fire. He thinks about him calling John by his first name, a societal sign of incredible fondness. He thinks about the joking around and the smiling and the sheepish glances and the compliments.

Oh, my god.

This went on for too long. It went too far and John wasn't even aware that it was real.

But it wasn't real, John thinks, panicking inside his own head as he grips the envelopes in his hands. It was all fake. Because I'm not gay.

...Right?

"Christ," John chokes out. The letters fall to the floor and he flops backwards onto the mattress, covering his face with his hands. "I never thought he... liked me. I..."

It's hard for him to remember most of the night with the wine. But he does remember the earlier parts, specifically the kissing. And, straight as he claims to be, he can't deny that he sort of, maybe, kinda... liked it. He ignores this realisation and moves on to another connected one.

The only reason that ever happened was because he'd prompted it himself.

"What else do you stop yourself from doing when you're sober?"

"I could show you, but I think you'd run off screaming."

"I don't mind."

"Don't you? You sure?"

"Oh, come on, you git. I'm supposed to be getting to know you today, remember? I want to know what's inside of that silly old head."

John sighs, stress squeezing his lungs and kicking his stomach. "I'm such an idiot."

Hudson isn't really listening to him, though. She's in her own world, reminiscing aloud. She props her chin on her fist and her elbow on her knee, and John has no choice but to listen to what she has to say.

"He couldn't get enough of you," she laughs softly. "I think the barrier of him so adamantly dismissing love made you all the more enticing to him. Untouchable, but so close. He told me all about you, about your phone and how you know Morse, your panic attacks and your good ideas. Ever since Theo, I started to see something in his eyes again. Something alive and stirring and awake."

John can only say "Jesus," as he listens. His hands move from his eyes and grasp at his own hair. If he were only strong enough, he'd pull it all out.

"And if you only saw the way he looked at you when you couldn't see-"

"Oh, Hudson," John interrupts. "I... Not right now. Please."

"Oh, that's right. Sorry."

Centuries of silence follow, and they're still. John looks up at the ceiling and Hudson looks down at the floor, both pondering about the same thing with terribly different viewpoints. John almost wants to leave the room. He almost wants to leave everything about Sherlock behind, knowing what he knows now.

But you can't disrespect the dead. So he doesn't.

And regardless of romantic interest or awkward sexual tension, John is still grieving, and he still misses him. So deciding to leave everything behind him would never work.

"Are you gonna eat the rest of that, dear?" Hudson asks, pointing to the discarded biscuit next to him. John shakes his head.

"No," he says. "Sorry, I'm... physically unable."

Hudson gives him a sympathetic smile and takes it as she heads for the door. "It's hard to eat when you're grieving. I know," she says. "Just remember to eat something today. You've become incredibly thin."

She leaves, heading back downstairs and leaving John alone with his thoughts, a stack of letters, and a room full of unseen secrets. He doesn't know what to do.

So the one person he ever thought was devoid of human emotion was the one who loved him most.

And John never even knew.

What a blind idiot he's been. A naïve fool. He suspected nothing, sensed nothing, knew nothing. And now that he knows what he missed, it all makes sense. It makes absolute, complete sense and it didn't then.

He sits up, putting the letters on top of the nightstand and absentmindedly opening a drawer.

There's an old Rubik's Cube in there, along with three ballpoint pens and a few blank microscope slides. Violin rosin is folded inside a soft piece of felt in the corner next to a rusted yet functioning pair of scissors. Everything here is just as Holmes left it. It's perfect, untouched, like a trip back in time. John doesn't want to touch it in fear of ruining it, so he closes the drawer and opens another one.

Spare buttons are the first thing he sees in this one, kept in a small glass bowl along the side. He notices they're the same buttons for his coat, which is likely still in the closet here. Shakespeare's Hamlet is snug in the corner, marked near the end with a sticky note as a bookmark, illegible scribbles marking the yellow paper. Beside that is a collection of novels by Virginia Woolf, which makes John smile a bit. The bloody genius used to read Virginia Woolf.

Moving on, he sees the periodic table of elements printed out on a black-and-white sheet of cardstock, thumbtacks and strings woven between them. Though he tries, he can't decipher what it means. But he can't usually decipher many things, as he's learned.

Hello, John.

The sticky note catches his eye again. He's looking at it from a different angle now, and it actually says something, although still messy.

He takes Hamlet from the drawer, opening it up to the designated page and reading the note.

I thought you might happen across this sometime. Now get out of my room.  
~Shark

"No," John retaliates, out loud, because he can. "Absolutely bloody not."

A splash of colour catches his attention. Turning to the previous page, he notices a whole section highlighted in green, certain words underlined with the thin blue marker one of the maps of London was made with. He reads the section, remembering nothing about Hamlet from school and having zero context but finding himself interested nonetheless. It reads as follows:

What is he whose grief  
Bears such an emphasis  
Whose phrase of sorrow  
Conjures the wand'ring stars  
and makes them stand  
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,  
Hamlet the Dane.

The devil take thy soul.

John closes the book, setting it back into its rightful place in the drawer, which he closes shut as he decides it's time to leave the room. He doesn't want to know too much. He's learnt enough today already.

And he's glad he did. Maybe now he can start to move on. Perhaps it'll happen if he really tries.

Pocketing the last three letters, dated from the fourteenth through the sixteenth of November 2007, John stands in the doorway and looks at everything. He looks at the mattress, that bloody stupid mattress where he was accidentally gay, the drawers, the shelves, the tables. His eyes rest on the violin in the corner. His hand rests on the doorknob.

He doesn't know when he'll be in this room next. He's guessing he isn't strong enough to do it too often. So this is his temporary adieu. A minute of silent thanks, and a promise to be seen again.

He closes the door and heads back down the hallway, knowing fully that he's crying but not having the energy to take care of that. He stands just outside the door for a moment, finding a twisted sense of comfort in the observation that he's hesitant to leave the one thing he's been hesitant to approach for the last three months. In a terrible, dark way, he finds it funny.

And just when things are starting to potentially look up, a meeting is called.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Mycroft Holmes sits back a bit pretentiously, since he's the only one in this room who actually has a chair. Everyone else is sitting on the floor, cross-legged in a circle inside of what used to be Speedy's Café, looking up at him like he's some kind of god. John feels somewhat dead. He wonders briefly if he is, but then realises that not even Hell itself would be cruel enough to put him in this boring, worthless conversation with these boring, worthless people.

"First order of business," Holmes says, holding John's phone in the air and opening it up. "Watson's phone. I've charged it and rewired it, adding some government-specific codes so it detects that we're in a different country than we actually are. It's called a VPN, and I've set it to change the location to Orlando, Florida."

"Yeah," John says, "so what'll that do?"

"Telephone, television, internet and radio signals have been blocked in this country, so the easy way to get around this would be to simply convince technology that we're somewhere else, specifically one of the more populated parts of a more populated country," Holmes explains. "Once I rewired the phone, I rewired my personal laptop as well, allowing myself to access the web."

He takes a pause, annoyingly enough, staring down at the phone before handing it back to John.

"And?" Hooper asks expectantly. Everyone gives him a not-so-subtle look implying for him to speed the hell up because they're living in an apocalypse and every wasted second adds up tremendously.

Holmes sets his jaw and inhales slowly, taking what feels like enough time to recite an entire speech in his head if he wanted to. "The news is... somewhat shocking, but somewhat predictable, to say the least. I'm glad you're all sitting down for this."

Lestrade sighs. "Oh, come on, now. What is it?"

"The cameras around London are fully functioning," Holmes says, finally getting to the point, "but they're not just used so we can be monitored by the remaining police force." He clicks his tongue, looking forebodingly at everyone in front of him. "Are you all familiar with The Truman Show?"

Nobody replies. They all just stare, thinking all different variants of the same thing: God damn it; just speak. Just say it.

"Well, anyway, this is somewhat like that. Whenever we step outside, all the cameras turn our way. People monitor it, they find the most interesting person about, and they broadcast it internationally," Holmes reports as he shifts in his seat. "We're all given a series of letters and numbers because they don't know our names. People have favourites and least favourites and we're all just characters on their screen. They try not to broadcast anything that isn't family-friendly, which is why we aren't allowed to swear. We all have an international reputation. We're all being watched."

The silence that follows is one John is familiar with. He's spoken with it, letting it linger around him when he needed it least. Although there were times when he found comfort in it, knowing that there was turmoil around him and it was short-lived. But not now. Watson is terrified, actually. Completely, utterly petrified.

Hooper swallows, her voice wavering as she speaks. "How... How do you know?" she asks nervously, grasping for anything to confirm that it isn't real.

"We're all over the news," Holmes says. "Papers, articles, the general media. They can't get enough of us. Scientists and psychologists are eating it all up, too, because now they get to study a world without government or resources; a land past its prime. We're their experiments. We're their entertainment. We aren't real to them."

John chuckles dryly down at the floor. "Are we even real at all, though?" he mutters, not caring if anyone hears.

Hooper is by far the most affected out of all of them. Her eyes show a childlike sense of irrational fear, her breath wavered, her brow damp with sweat. "What do we do?" she asks. "What are we going to..."

"We have to pretend that we don't know a thing," Holmes demands. "They have to think that this was just an ordinary meeting. When you leave this building, you must look normal. No fear should cloud your eyes. Keep your cool as if your life depends on it, which it may."

Lestrade scoffs. "Yeah, and how's that gonna happen?"

Holmes forces a false smile, tightening his lips as his eyes glower down at them. "I'll simply have to distract you," he says. "Because this wasn't the only reason I called this meeting."

"Actually, I have the other reason," Hooper announces, standing up. She takes a breath, steadying her nerves, and turns to John. "Watson."

Oh, what now? John complains silently, looking back up at her as she tries to swallow her ever-growing anxiety.

"Yes?"

"We've been talking," she says, "and nobody has seen or heard of Moriarty except for you, and we think... Well, we... For our best interest and our wellbeing as a whole... Well, um..."

Lestrade interrupts. "You bloody did it, didn't you, Watson?" he accuses, and they all turn to look at him.

John's mouth hangs open for a moment or two, and he tries to fight the feeling of tears pricking at his eyes, threatening to pool up and out of them. He looks at Hooper, and back to Lestrade, and then to Hooper again.

"No," he breathes. "You lot don't really think I killed him, do you?"

Hudson looks stunned, her expression contributing more to the meeting than she ever has before. She meets his eyes, and he looks away.

"Well, I didn't," John says. "I can assure you that I cared too much about him to do such a thing." He looks at the floor, and notices that he's feeling an emotion for once. Multiple, actually, and they're feelings he hasn't had in three months. Through all the usual numbness, others materialise.

He knows them all too well. Fear, anger, and the emotion you feel when you've been turned away from.

Betrayal.

He remembers that word. He can taste it. And it triggers the anger even further.

He laughs emotionlessly, shaking his head and staring at the floor. "I can't believe this," he says. "I legitimately cannot believe this. Out of all the people in this room, I've been the one grieving the most, for the longest time..." He pauses as his voice chokes itself. "...and you go and pin the death on me."

Lestrade holds up a hand, gesticulating for everyone to calm down and take a step back. "Look. We're just taking precautionary measures. I'm sure you'd do the same-"

"No," John cuts him off, standing up and clenching his teeth. "I don't think I would. Because I know what it's like to watch your best friend die in front of you. I've done it two fucking times in my life, which is two times too many. I would not, in my life, go and blame the one person who would never be able to leave that behind." He stares them down, and Hooper avoids his gaze.

Holmes clears his throat, greedily sliding the focus of the room to his side of the circle.

"Look, Watson," he says, "Sherlock liked you, so we let you stay. But he's gone, and all you've ever been to us is a phone. And now that we know what we're up against, we don't need a phone anymore. You just aren't useful now."

"Yeah?" John asks quietly, fury boiling his blood dry. "So I'm just... pointless to you? Because that's all I am? A tool?"

"To be quite blunt, that's what we all are," Holmes replies.

"Oh, my God!" John exclaims at the ceiling, throwing his arms out. "Did any of you three even care about him? Or was he some stupid tool, too? Do you even..." He feels his lips draw back as he snarls the rest of his sentence. "Do any of you even feel?"

He's met with blank stares, except for Hudson's, which is broken and sorrowful. He doesn't care if he's making a scene. He keeps talking.

"And to think he trusted you all," John rambles on. "He supported you and gave you things and helped keep you alive and he wasn't even a real friend to you?"

Holmes shrugs, his mouth turning down into a nonchalant pout. "He wasn't my friend; he was my brother," he replies, and John whips back to him.

"That's supposed to be the same thing," he hisses, almost enjoying the few seconds of shocked, tense silence that come afterward. Nobody except for Hudson is meeting his eyes. It makes him feel somewhat powerful, even though he's getting the sense that he hasn't won and never will.

"So that's it, then?" he asks, quietly now, accepting defeat. "You're throwing me out?"

Holmes takes a breath, standing up and handing John's phone back to him. "You have twelve hours to relocate. We'll be taking your place in this camp to be closer to Hudson. She still needs to be taken care of-"

"Oh, I don't think so, kiddo."

All attention snaps to Hudson, who looks angrier than she ever has before. Her hair brings out the fire in her eyes as she glares straight at Holmes, her chest inflating deeply with rage. Holmes is stunned as he watches her fume.

"This is my flat," she says. "I choose who to let in. If you lot need a place to stay, you can all sleep in this room as long as you don't set foot anywhere else." She casts a sorrowful look at John before adding, "I'd rather have a vacancy with memories of good people than a place full with people that make me want to evict myself."

Hudson and Watson both know that they're outnumbered, and that they have no power to decide that John stays. But at least she can keep her sanity if not him. And at least she gets to exercise the little power she still has.

"Fine, then," Hooper says coldly. "Then Watson leaves now."

John narrows his eyes, giving her a tight, false smile. "Not without my things, I don't."

Hooper's left eye twitches, and she scrunches up her nose a bit. "I think you bloody do."

"You expect me to leave without my dog, even?" John challenges quietly. "Are you up for taking care of her yourself?"

Hooper only points at the door, her gaze strong and unbreakable. "Leave, Watson."

John straightens his spine, flames of anger licking at his stomach. He hates her. He hates her like he hates reality. He hates her like he hates Moriarty, and like he hates his knife. He hates her with all the passion he's read in those godforsaken letters.

Before he even processes it, his fist is on her jaw, making a deafening crunch as she's thrown backwards to the floor. She doesn't get up. He's knocked her out.

Lestrade's hands are immediately on John's back, shoving him to the door as Holmes opens it. "How dare you punch a woman?" he shames him, but John doesn't take to it.

"Gender doesn't matter if you're being a cock," he hisses back. Lestrade's haw hardens along with his grip.

"I knew you were rotten the first time I laid eyes on you," he growls in his ear. "I should trust my intuition more."

And with that, John Watson is hurled out into the dark street, the door slamming steadily behind him.

The air around him grows chillier, the cold biting his bare arms. He turns back to the door of Speedy's, watching as everyone sits back down, Hudson tending to Molly as Holmes holds his face in his hands.

"Fuck them," John whispers to himself. "Fuck this. Fuck them all."

Stepping back to the door, John tells himself to calm down. His fingers reach for it, and he pulls it back open.

The bell dings as he walks back inside, putting his hands in his pockets and standing there as he's stared at.

"Hudson, I need a coat," he says.

"In the front closet, dear," she offers weakly. "You can take, you know, his."

John walks past them, passing through the doorway back into the flat. His hands are shaking a bit as he pulls open the closet door, numbly taking Sherlock's long coat and slipping it over his shoulders. It's big on him, and rather comforting, and he doesn't bother leaving through the door next to him. Instead, he walks back through the café, stopping in the centre of the room and looking at Holmes through droopy, exhausted eyes.

"What's my number?" he asks.

Mycroft Holmes tips his head. "Sorry?"

"My series of numbers and letters," John explains. "What am I to them all?"

Holmes pauses, looking almost shamefully at the floor. "G4072," he says, and John nods.

"And what about his?" he asks.

"Whose?"

John gives Holmes a meaningful look, knowing he doesn't need to say it. Holmes nods slowly, getting the point.

"C2309," he says. "Do with that what you will."

John nods, clearing his throat and backing outside as he pushes the door open with his back.

"Well," he says, "I'm leaving now. It was shit knowing you. See you all in Hell." He smiles, and, with the slam of the glass door, John Hamish Watson turns away.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

For the longest time, John doesn't know where to go. He's walked for about an hour now, finding nowhere to stay, no corner to shield him from the wind. He stops hopelessly against a brick wall, and, knowing he's absolutely hopeless on his own, he sinks down to the ground. Wrapping the coat around his face, he can still smell Sherlock in it.

He sobs. And he doesn't care that families around the world are watching him do it. Because, for Christ's sake, G4072 is devastated and lost and cold.

Crying is the least he can do.

I watch him cry. You watch him cry. The world watches him cry.

And nobody cries with him. Because they don't understand how real this all is.

John is just a series of pixels on a screen to everyone. He's not even John. To you and to me and to everyone, he's just G4072, sitting in the street in a coat three sizes too big.

And, though he's aware that he's being watched, aware of all the eyes looking over his slumped, sobbing body, aware of all the people that are aware of him, never before has he felt so alone.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"When's he scheduled again, Moran?" Adler asks, grabbing a bag of dehydrated fruit from the shelf and ripping it open with her teeth. Her assistant checks what she's written down on her old, water-damaged notepad, her light hair extra curly from the humidity in the room.

"Tomorrow, Miss," she reports. "He'll arrive near midnight and is scheduled until dawn."

"Oh, perfect," Adler remarks, pouring the fruit into a mixing bowl and adding a few handfuls of flour. "I've got twenty-four hours to prepare."

They're both startled by a knock at the door, and they stare at each other in shock before Adler creeps toward it. It can't be the police... can it?

Her hands grip the doorknob, knowing it's best to greet them instead of potentially being slaughtered in a raid. She turns it and pulls, squinting her eyes shut so she isn't as startled by what she might see.

But the result isn't startling.

It's John Watson.

She stares blankly at him, more confused than anything as he stands in front of her, his hands in the pockets of Sherlock Holmes' coat and his eyes a tragic shade of red.

"Hi," he says. He doesn't mention that he forgot the code to the keypad and that's the main reason that he didn't just break in.

Adler opens the door a bit wider. "Hi."

Candlelight radiates from inside the room, looking warm and welcoming and absolutely lovely. John doesn't want to be rude, so he keeps himself from stepping toward it. But he can't deny that it's what draws him in the most.

"Look," says the moth to the locust, his wings cold and broken, his legs bent and weak. "I need some help."

The flame on the table is the second thing to invite him inside.


	16. His Heir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets a woman.

«I get no offers; just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue. I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome, I took some comfort there.»

~Simon and Garfunkel: The Boxer

-

John wakes up on the floor in the front room. For a long time, he doesn't know where he is. But his memories soon return, and soon enough he's completely aware of why he's in Adler's shop.

He sits up, his back terribly sore from sleeping on the hardwood boards beneath him, tenderness radiating down his spine with every move, like his entire body is one big bruise. And if it is, fine. At least something will reflect how he feels internally; how much he hurts even when he sleeps on a thick, soft mattress on a floor that doesn't break the laws of physics and press against him harder than he presses against it.

He stands up and walks to the next room, finding Adler and her assistant speaking in the corner. They fall silent when he appears, and he awkwardly nods, feeling he's interrupting something incredibly important.

"Morning," he says.

Adler nods. "And so it is."

The two ladies stare him down, and he wants to run away from their piercing stares. But he can't, so he subordinately stares back.

"I, um..." he says eventually, breaking the tense silence, "Where do you... I mean, where's your, uh...?" He's lost for words, and Adler sighs and points her thumb behind her, suggesting a location outside.

"Out back," she says. "I hope you're used to pissing in a bucket."

John nods and leaves, catching their hushed murmurs as he turns away.

"...make sure... asleep... let him in..."

"We could postpone... one or two in the... for insurance..."

He opens the door and steps outside, the hot air surrounding him and pulling him forward. He relieves himself in the designated area in the back, standing outside for a while afterwards and looking out at the street before him. It looks lonely. Of course, it's always been lonely. London itself is lonely. But John just notices it now, likely because he's feeling lonely himself.

All he needs right now is one companion. That's it. Even if this said person is nothing compared to the greatness of Sherlock Holmes, he just needs someone to fill in. Just a short job until he gets back on his feet and becomes accustomed to living alone.

God, I just need one friend. One.

He sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. His hair is too long now. He needs to cut it again. Although, unfortunately, he isn't quite sure there are scissors here. Both Adler and her assistant have long hair, so he guesses there's nothing sharp enough around here.

He turns back and opens the door to the shop, going inside again and shutting the door behind him. Adler has lit a small fire above the countertop on some sort of metal plate, and is cooking something on top of it. It smells delicious, and he isn't quite sure what it is.

"Hungry?" she asks. "It's meat. Got it down in the underground."

"Oh, did you?" John asks, not wanting to know exactly how she got her hands on such a precious food. "Yeah, I'm starving, thanks."

"There isn't much, so we're gonna have to split it between the three of us." She turns the little pieces over with the tips of her fingers, being careful not to burn herself.

John nods. "Yeah, of course."

Adler nods. "Sleep well? It wasn't too cold, was it?"

"No, not at all," John replies. "Thank you so much, by the way."

"Oh, no worries at all," Adler says. "Besides, we could use someone like you."

"Could you, now?" John asks, thinking bitterly back to being told the exact opposite. "I mean, I'd love to help out if it guarantees a place to stay-"

"Yes, please do!" Adler smiles. "We'd love to have you. Doing good deeds helps keep up our image." She clears her throat. "And, of course, our rapport."

John looks down at the thin strips of cooking meat as Adler takes them off of the fire, handing a few to him and leaving a few on the counter for her assistant. She holds a few in her hand, not bothered at all by the heat, walking toward the door.

"I'm going out," she says. "I'll be back before dusk, most likely." She pulls it open, stepping outside and ripping a piece of the meat off with her teeth. "We can discuss your situation later."

"Right. Bye," John says, but she's already closed the door behind her.

John tosses the meat between his hands as it cools down. He watches it steam, his mouth watering profusely as the fumes hit his nostrils. It isn't seasoned and wasn't cooked with anything except for heat, but it seems like the most delicious thing he's ever encountered in his life.

It's so odd what starvation does for people. Deprive someone of something for so long, and anything that fills in for it, no matter how bad, will make them feel like they've hit diamonds in a cavern lined with cheap graphite. It's a toxic phenomenon; one where one is unaware of the damage being done to them until they're too broken to know when it started.

John takes a bite of the meat, savouring it as the taste hits his tongue. It's bloody delicious. He can't remember the last time he ate something this good.

He's finished his helping within about a minute, using all the restraint he's got to not take the ones left out for Adler's assistant. He leans against the counter, tapping his fingers on the table as he tries to distract himself from the food before him.

"Hello," the assistant greets him as she walks into the room, almost too friendly as she gives him a warm smile. John, taken slightly off-guard, smiles back.

"Hi," he says, and she immediately offers her hand for him to shake.

"Moran," she introduces herself. "Mary Moran."

He shakes her hand, gripping it roughly in his sad, calloused one. "John Watson."

"I know," she says.

John pauses. "Um... okay."

She has incredible impulse control, only taking small, slow bites of her food as she stands there in the kitchen area. Her hair is long and a bit curly, the colour of buttercream. She smiles at him, her bright blue eyes jogging his memory as they remind him of another, bluer set of eyes. He hopes he's doing a good job of smiling back.

"I'm s'posed to watch over this place," Moran says, motioning with her hand to the room they're standing in. "Thing is, nobody can get in anyway if they haven't got the code."

"Hm," John replies. "What is the code, by the way?"

"Can't remember, really. I just think it's in some sort of square formation," she replies. "Anyway, I'm really pointless. All I ever do here is schedule the visits from all the people she has to dominate. Tedious work, really."

John nods, only half-interested. "I'd imagine."

Moran finishes her food, cleaning the tips of her fingers on an old rag. "So I'm not going to do it today."

"Mm," John says absently before the sentence sinks in and he follows it with a "Wait, sorry, what?"

She shrugs. "I'm gonna go out. I've got the right. Legally speaking, she can't keep me in here. That's... abduction, or something."

"Well, actually, laws don't exist here anymore, so I wouldn't recommend basing your argument on a legal system that's no longer present-"

"And I'm sure you wouldn't want to stay in here, either. It's incredibly boring. And I'm sure you've got things to do," Moran interrupts him. And she's right; John does have things to do. He needs to get his toothbrush, for starters, and then he'll need his dog. And, hell, he might as well take a book or two so he doesn't get bored out of his mind in this little room. Oh, and scissors. At this point, he may as well make a list.

"So, Watson," Moran proposes, "How'd you like to go out into town?"

John sighs, staring down at the peeling laminate countertop. "I really don't want to," he admits, not necessarily minding if that's offensive at all, "but I honestly don't have a choice."

She nods. "Shall we go, then?"

John walks to the door, yanking it open and letting himself out. "We shall."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Odd, isn't it?"

John looks at Moran, who's walking next to him with a casual gait like she doesn't know that they're living on a dead, wilted, decomposing part of the planet. "Isn't what odd?" he asks.

"Whether it's night or day, it's rare you ever see anyone else out here."

John shrugs. "Well, it's true that we're all hiding from each other, so that makes perfect sense to me."

Moran looks at the skyline as they walk towards it, almost longing to step through it, never coming back down to the ground. "I wish we were more neighbourly here," she says aloud. "You'd think that larger communities would form instead of tiny gangs when a crisis like this arose."

"What makes you say that?" John asks. They turn onto a new street, getting continuously closer to where he used to live. He can feel anxiety churning through him, making him somewhat unable to listen to what Moran has to say next.

"Well, it makes more sense," she explains. "The larger your community, the stronger you are, the more resources you've got, the more power you hold. Of course, being small or on your own attracts less attention and makes you less of a target, but it certainly isn't sustaining."

"Are you suggesting we rebuild the government?" John asks, "Because that really isn't so simple."

Moran shrugs. "I'm saying it's worth looking into. Planning might take a while. Executing might take a while. But then again, everything does, so I'd say it's worth it."

"I don't know why you're telling me this," John says with a sigh. They're about five minutes away now. He's nervous. Forget that. He's terrified.

Moran changes the subject, her sense of self-confidence overwhelming. She keeps talking to him, even though he doesn't care and she sees it plain as day. Her long hair bounces on her shoulders with each step. Her smile widens.

"So, what did you do?" she asks. "Before the drought began, I mean."

"I was in the army," John replies. They're so close now. He can see the street where they'll stop. Baker Street. Too close. Way too close. Why is he still going? He's too close. "What about you?"

"Assassin," Moran replies. "More of a hit-girl, really. Pay me enough and I'll kill anyone. I'm good at that."

"Oh," John replies. "Wow, okay."

Moran laughs. "What, you thought that since I'm friendly and cute that I couldn't possibly be a ruthless killer?"

"You sound kinda like a psychopath to me," John says.

Moran only laughs. She laughs for a long time. John wants it to end.

"But really," he continues. "Is the friendliness a ruse or is the killing part a ruse? You can't have both at the same time."

"Well, I do," Moran replies. "I've learnt friendliness over the years. I needed it for my job, you know. To get close to people. It's just a habit now."

John scoffs. "So maybe you're trying to kill me."

Moran smiles. "Oh, Watson, you're absolutely hilarious."

John stops talking. He stops listening. He stops walking.

They're here.

221B Baker Street, in strong, patched shambles. This is the second time in his life that he's looking at it as someone else's home and not his own. Of course, the first time he ever saw it, there were less bitter memories attached.

"This is it?" Moran asks. "What are we going to do?"

John looks up at the window, the door, the wall, and knows there's no way to do this than the obvious one.

"We're going to sneak through the door," he says. "You'll immediately turn right, going into the café. Take anything from there they we might find useful."

Moran nods. "And you?"

"I'll be upstairs," John decides, "getting scissors, a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and my dog."

He wonders if people are watching him. He imagines them sitting on the edges of their seats, their faces pressed up against the telly, absorbing his every move. He'll give them something to absorb, all right. He'll give the code G4072 a strong reputation.

Is it stealing when you're taking something that's yours?

John isn't sure, but he knows he will be breaking and entering, which makes today his first non-heroic day. He isn't a happy-go-lucky, morally correct ray of sunshine anymore. He's fucking done. And he deserves some vengeance.

"What if they're all here?" Moran asks.

"You're an assassin; you tell me," John replies, and, without overthinking anything before it's too late, walks swiftly to the front door and swings it open.

It's silent.

In fact, it's bare.

Moran checks the café and turns back to John with a confused look on her face. She might even look concerned as she breaks the news.

"There's nothing here."

John forgets the stairs for a moment. He runs to Hudson's kitchen, looking around the room for any signs of anything at all.

But there's nothing.

Her table is gone. Her flour is gone. Her books are gone.

What if she's gone, too?

John opens the cupboard where all the maps were kept, and is relieved to find those still there. He takes them and stuffs them all under his arm, moving to Hudson's room in search of her or things she left behind.

Her mattress is missing as well. Her closet is empty. John tears frantically through the room, and then hurried back to the stairs.

Moran follows him, and he drops the maps in her arms and bolts up the stairs.

It was a raid, he's decided. They took everything and kicked everyone out. And Hudson is out on the streets on her own without anywhere to go.

But his hypothesis changes as he gets to the top of the stairway.

The place is thriving.

It's like it's been completely furnished again. There's a table back in the kitchen, extra mattresses for everyone, flour in the cupboard. Even a dog bowl is sitting out by the wall.

"No," John fumes. He storms to the kitchen, surveying the area. "No."

Moran follows him. "What?" she asks. "What's going on?"

"They took Hudson's things," John says. "They took them and they kicked her out. Oh, those bastards-"

They hear a door opening downstairs, and they both freeze. Moran gives John a wide-eyed stare. He returns it.

There are footsteps below them, and finally speaking.

"You don't think she'll try to get the place back, do you?"

"After how fast she ran? She's never coming back. If she didn't have she art attack from the physical exertion then shel still be too petrified to set foot in this place. It's Watson I'm worried about."

"Why would you be worried about Watson?"

Mary motions with her head to the hallway, and John leads them into Sherlock's room, closing the door behind them as they tensely plan their escape.

"Well, he did potentially kill a man. Not to mention he's bloody resilient. He'll put up a fight before it's even called." That was Lestrade's voice, probably.

"No, he didn't kill him. Don't give him too much credit." Holmes.

"Well, if Holmes hadn't died, we wouldn't be here," Hooper. "So I take it as a blessing. Besides. I've finally found someone I actually love, right here."

"Aw, Molly. I'm so glad to hear it." Who knows who the hell that was.

"You said you wanted scissors?" Moran whispers, holding a pair that she found in one of the drawers. John nods, opening the connecting door to the bathroom and grabbing a toothbrush.

The footsteps come up the stairs and stop in the living area. Someone sits down in a chair. John can even hear Kiwi's nails clicking on the floor as she trots around. He hopes with all his might that she won't smell him or Moran and go insane.

Sherlock's mattress is gone as well, along with his nightstand and his bookshelf. Everything looks so empty now. John can't believe they even dared tampering with such a room.

Moran follows him into the bathroom and closes the connecting door, knowing they're safest in here because it's completely unusable and there's no reason for someone to come inside it in the first place. She seems to be completely composed, her face placid and wrinkle-less as she coolly waits this out. She's not even a soldier and she's still better than John at this.

"Do you see that?" Lestrade's muffled voice echoes through the flat.

"See what?" Molly asks.

"Sherlock's door. I think it's open a bit."

John panics. "Shit," he whispers frantically. "Shit shit shit shit."

And then more footsteps.

John scans the room, quickly jumping behind the shower curtain and stepping into the bathtub to hide as Mary presses herself into the opposite corner of the room. The feet stop at the bedroom door, whomever they belong to peeking inside for a few moments.

"Hm," says the voice, belonging to Mycroft Holmes. "Must've opened on its own. The door is wearing down, anyway."

"That's odd," remarks Lestrade, following close behind and stepping into the bedroom. John ducks down into the tub, pressing himself against the side they can't see.

Don't look through the bathroom door, he thinks. Don't look through the bathroom door. Please don't.

And so the universe shows some mercy. They don't look through the door.

But something about Sherlock's room sparks their attention. Something draws them in. So they stay in it. John holds back a scoff. He doesn't blame them.

Mycroft Holmes' voice reeks of sand and dust as he hoarsely looks about. "Virginia Woolf," he observes. "How incredibly un-Sherlock-like of him."

If John was part of this conversation, which he prays to God he won't be, he'd interject there. He would stand up and tell them that it's, in fact, very Sherlock-like to read books about love. Because that's who he was. Sherlock was a man of hidden love, so much pent up inside of him that it spilled out in all the wrong places. For example, collecting Virginia Woolf and probably reading them more than once.

Because Sherlock was like that before he became gone.

You'd never know how he felt about anything until you got really close to him, John would tell them if he could. Close enough where you can see all his little blemishes on his almost-perfect skin and all the unwanted flecks of odd colour in his blue-green eyes. That was when one could really see him, because, like an enemy once said, his eyes would always give it away.

And if you weren't close enough to him to notice a thing like his eyes, you must've been pretty bloody far away.

"I feel like I'm snooping," Lestrade's voice scrapes against the connecting glass door between them. "Should we be in here? In a dead man's room?"

"Oh, do calm down. It's my brothers room. Whether or not he's alive is regardless," Holmes replies casually. "Besides, one would think someone with the former label Detective Inspector would be immune to the fear of snooping. I was under the impression that snooping was your job."

Lestrade is quiet, and wood shuffles against metal as the drawer is shut.

"Really, though, ransacking this place was difficult enough," Lestrade finally objects. "So I'll be in the kitchen."

"Fine, Gregory," Holmes spits at him as one pair of footsteps disappears down the hall. John's brow furrows.

That's his name?

His realisation is interrupted as Mycroft walks past the connecting door, his shadow making John jump in alarm, hitting his shoulder on the side of the tub with a painful thump. This goes unnoticed, conveniently enough, and he grits his teeth as he holds his shoulder with a tense grip. This is just lovely. He's stuck in this fucking bathroom with some girl until everyone is either gone or asleep. And who knows how long that'll take? Hours? Days?

John sighs and repositions himself in the tub, leaning less on his shoulder and more on the side of his ribcage. He wants so terribly to sit up or stand or do anything other than this. He wishes Holmes never existed so they wouldn't be in this mess. He doesn't even know which Holmes he means.

And then, like the passing shadow wasn't enough to scare the shit out of him, the glass door opens, and Mycroft Holmes steps calmly into the unusable bathroom.

John wonders briefly if it's possible he can't see him. But that's really just wishful thinking.

Holmes sounds almost proud as his voice echoes off the walls.

"Hello, you two."

John squeezes his eyes shut and sits up in defeat, his shoulders slouching as he faces Holmes with an expression one can only wear when being caught hiding in a broken bathtub. Moran, however, is still completely composed, her back still flattened against the wall even though Holmes has looked right at her and she's looked right back.

"Would if break your hearts if I told you that I knew you were here this entire time?" Holmes asks.

"No, but I must mention," John says, his voice shaky with adrenaline, "that it'd probably kill us if you told anyone else."

Mycroft Holmes sets his jaw. "I must mention that keeping secrets can be incredibly difficult."

Moran shifts from her spot on the wall and stands with her feet shoulder-length apart, her shoulders back and authoritative as she finally joins the conversation John was just hoping he'd never have.

"And so I must mention," she adds, "that I have a knife in one pocket and bear spray in the other, and I wouldn't think you'd like the tail end of either."

Holmes pauses, slightly alarmed as Moran raises her eyebrows in expectation. She's a unstoppable force. He's an immovable object. John has the fleeting fear that they might cause an explosion.

He crosses his arms and digs his fingernails into his palms in attempt to distract himself from his nerves. He's lived grouch much worse than this, he reminds himself. So much worse. He can handle his surroundings.

"Well," Holmes sighs as he straightens his posture, "I suppose you'll have to wait to escape. It'll be at least six hours before we all consider going to sleep, so I'll leave you to your waiting session." He turns and steps out of the room, and John abruptly stops him from stepping farther away.

"Holmes," he says, the word all-too-familiar in his mouth. "I, um... Thank you."

Mycroft Holmes stares blankly at John for a moment, returning his thanks with a soft nod and closing the glass door between them.

And, as if she holds the ability to teleport, Moran is sitting across from John in the bathtub, her arms hugged around her knees as she quietly starts talking.

"We won't wait here for long," she decides aloud. "Why wait for them to sleep when we could simply wait for them to leave the room?"

John is taken off-guard by the sudden conversation, but he collects himself and shrugs. "I don't know," he says as he adds a tone of sarcasm. "Maybe because we have no idea when they've all left?"

Moran narrows her eyes. "Oh, Watson, you're not very experienced at this, are you?" she asks rhetorically, continuing her little plan. "All the chairs in the main room are faced towards the fireplace. As long as everyone's either gone or sitting in a chair, we can sneak out behind them and make a run for it down the stairs. They won't be able to catch us if we're quick."

John likes the riskiness of this all. He bathes in it, almost quite literally, and sits back against the end of the bathtub. His heart jumps as he humours the idea. Running when one isn't supposed to, trespassing in a lawless land. He hasn't really had the feeling of adventure in a long time. To be exact, he hasn't had an adventure since the third of June, which was three months and one day ago. He can't deny how much he misses it.

"You know," he says, leaning his head back against the cracking tile wall, "I've never stolen before."

Moran, who had been previously ripping the stray ends off of her ripped shorts, looks up with an incredulous grin. "Is that so?"

John nods. "Haven't ever trespassed, either. This is all quite new to me, you know. Criminality really isn't something I'm familiar with."

Moran scoffs. "Yeah, I gathered that."

"Oh, shut up," John whispers. "Look who's talking. You didn't even hide behind anything."

"Wrong," she rebuts with minimal effort. "I hid behind the wall, assuming they wouldn't come in."

"Some ninja you are," he criticises as he leans his arm on the rim of the tub. "Holmes saw you first."

Moran can't think of an argument against that, so she sighs and leans her chin on her knees, looking ahead of her at John. They're both bored. Now that they know they're safe, time doesn't even move.

"Well," John says, "How the hell are we gonna occupy ourselves for an extended period of time?"

Moran takes a long breath and looks around the room. "Chess?" she jokes halfheartedly, and John offers a short, forced laugh before it dawns on him that they probably have access to chess anyway.

"I'm going to be right back," he announced quietly, stepping out of the bathtub and into Sherlock's now bare room. Carefully stepping over to the closet, he opens the door and looks inside.

This comes as a surprise to him, but there actually isn't a game of chess in that cupboard. However, there is a deck of cards, and he grabs it, bringing it back into the bathroom and sitting down in his spot across from Moran. He hands it to her, watching her open it and smugly give him one single card.

John furrows his brow. "What do you want me to do with this?" he asks. "Just one? What are we-"

Moran shushes him, reaching across the space and pressing her finger to his lips. "Just look at it. Don't tell me what it is."

"Oh, so you're an assassin, a ninja, and also a magician?" John whispers. "Which one do I bloody believe?"

"John, I want you to answer every question I ask you with the simple word 'no'. It's quite simple. Are you ready?"

"No," John deadpans, earning a small chuckle from Moran's side of the bathtub. "What is this?"

"It's a trick I learned in training. Just do what I say, alright?" Moran pauses. "Is your name John Watson?"

John, perplexed by this little game, sighs and rests his chin on his fist. "No."

"Are we in London?"

John shrugs. "Depends on how you-"

Moran silences him with a look.

He sighs and gives in. "No."

"And are you taller than me?"

John laughs a bit. "Not fair," he complains, eventually adding a truthful "No."

Moran nods, absentmindedly shuffling the deck of cards in her small, thin hands. "Is your card red?"

"No," John sighs, wanting this to be over with. Moran smiles and splits the deck.

"Does your card have a number on it?"

"No," John replies obediently, glancing between her and his card every so often, paranoid that he got it wrong and forgot what it was.

Moran shuffles the deck once more, her hands dancing around the cards as she speaks. "Is it a King?"

John exhales. "Nope," he says, and Moran clears her throat and sits up.

"I don't feel like getting down to those annoying bloody suits," she says, "but your card is red and it's a King." She nonchalantly deals them both a handful of new cards as John gapes at her.

"What the hell?" he exclaims, forgetting for a short moment to keep his voice down. He remembers then, and goes back to a whisper. "How did you do that?"

"It's a tell, John," Moran explains. "I simply pinpoint something you do when you lie and watch for it when I ask you the questions."

"And my... tell?" John asks.

"You're a lot more obvious than others," she replies. "You sigh when you're fibbing. Even a blind person could get that far. That's how tragically bad you are at it. You can start, by the way."

"What are we playing?" asks John, now suddenly self-conscious about his breathing.

"I don't know," Moran says. "I thought maybe you'd have an idea."

"The only legitimate card game I know is Solitaire," John admits, and Moran smirks.

"I don't even know that one," she replies, and gives a moment of thought. "Do you know Uno?"

And that's how John ends up sitting in a bathtub with a girl he's known for about twelve hours, playing Uno with a generic deck of cards. He places a three of diamonds on top of a three of spades snd watches her look at her hand.

"So you must be experienced at reading people," he says. "You only took a few questions to know how I lie."

"Well, you only took a few questions to give me the key to how you lie. I think it's mostly on your part," Moran replies as she places a seven of diamonds onto the stack. "You just so happen to suck so terribly at telling lies that it'd take any idiot five seconds to find your tell."

"Okay," John hisses. "Fine. I'm bad at lying. I get it."

Moran smiles smugly at him as he plays a two of diamonds.

"So what's your tell, then?" John asks. "Come on; you know mine. I think I've got the right to yours now."

Moran sighs and looks out at the room, her eyes glancing over the broken mirror and rusted tap on the sink. "The thing about me," she says, "is that, well, if I'm happy, it's a lie."

John squints at her. "So you're never happy?"

"I'm never fulfilled, no," Moran clarifies. "There's always some new mission in trying to accomplish, someone I'm lying to, someone I'm hurting on purpose..." She trails off, not wanting to give an entire list. "It's what I was trained to do, and how I'm programmed to live. So no, I'm never happy or content. So never believe me if I say I am."

"Fair enough," John says. "It's your go."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

John has no idea how it started, but the game of Uno somehow turned into Moran kissing him, and him kissing back and thinking he probably liked it, and now she's sitting on his hips as he lays on his back in the bathtub, her hands in his hair and an entire deck of playing cards scattered around them. If you were to ask him how this happened, he wouldn't be able to give a single detail. If you were to ask him why he did it, he'd likely respond with a philosophical "Why does anyone do anything?" and shift his eyes to the floor before changing the subject.

Moran, he admits, feels familiar to him, like she's something he knows on the back of his hand. She's witty, clever, and knows how to get out of things. She knows how to tell if one is lying, and how to trick them into giving her what she wants. And she's assertive, too. She makes decisions, usually without even checking in with anyone else. She's so confident, so clever, so unbreakable. And he likes that in people. He's not sure when that started.

Her lips leave his, her eyes trailing across her face as she smirks down at him.

"We can probably leave now," she says, and John nods.

"Yeah, we could," he agrees, looking back up at her, feeling his stomach tug at his brain the way it does when he's doing something wrong. But he ignores what it's telling him. He likes rebelling. That's one thing that modern-day London has taught him. It's fun to not follow rules when they barely exist.

"Should we, though?" Moran asks. "You, know, we could stay here."

"Yeah, we could," John repeats.

Moran smiles devilishly down at him, leaning over again and connecting her lips to his again.

He accepts it at first, pulling her in and disregarding a displaced playing card digging into his shoulderblade. But then he freezes, and has to push her away as he sits up.

"Actually," he says, "we can't."

Moran, for once, looks dejected and fragile. Her eyes don't show the strong mask they usually possess as she looks back at him. "What do you mean?"

"We need to get back," John replies. "Adler will know we've left. Jesus, what time even is it? It's bloody dark in here."

"I don't care about Adler," Moran says. "Come on, John..."

But he's already stepped out of the tub, gathering the things he needs to bring back and opening the glass door. "Look," he says, "We're adults. The world may be basically over, but we still have some goddamned responsibilities. We can't snog each other all the time like we're teens. We need to get back so Adler doesn't know you left, and, oh, also so we don't get murdered." He throws her the maps he collected and takes his toothbrush and scissors from where he left them on the floor. "Let's get out of here."

"Just like that?" Moran asks. "You don't even have a plan?"

"I do too have a plan," John replies. "Like you said. We'll creep down the stairs and pray to God that nobody catches us."

"And what about your dog?" Moran challenges him. "How are we gonna go about snatching her?"

"We'll find her. She's got to be somewhere in the main room. Her bowl is in there."

Moran pouts, getting ready to stand up. She stops, though, looking down at one of the cards in the bathtub.

"Oh, look at that," she says, picking one up. "A barcode."

"Yeah," John says. "A barcode. That's nothing special. There's always one on a card or box-"

"C2309," Moran says.

John's heart leaps in his chest. He steps forward, taking the card between his fingers. It's an ace of spades, the marks printed a deep black. Before now, he hasn't noticed how unused the cards appear to be. He flips it around, looking down at the markings on the back. And there it is. Sherlock's code. C2309.

"How did you know about the code?" he asks. "How did you-"

"You were muttering it in your sleep this morning," she says. "I was getting water, and you were sleeping on the floor, repeating it over and over like it was some sort of prayer."

John feels his face grow warm, something pricking at his cheeks. "Oh-"

"What does it mean, by the way?" Moran asks. "Some military thing?"

"Ah, no," John says with a forced chuckle, stuffing the card in his pocket and turning around to leave. "It's nothing. It's just... Yeah, nothing."

Moran follows him silently as he opens the door and peeks into the hallway. It's empty and dim, the late colours of sunset reflecting over the worn floorboards. Kiwi is sleeping at the end of it, and he tiptoes over to her as Moran peeks into the main room.

Please don't bark, John begs silently as he pets her head, watching her eyes blink slowly open. Moran is tearing through the main room, gathering other random things in her arms as Kiwi jumps up and licks John's face, running in a few circles as he tries to calm her down.

"Alright, Kiwi," he whispers. "Let's hope you've mastered walking without running off, because you're going to need to follow us, alright?" He holds her chin in his hand, speaking to her as if she's a person. He thinks she understands. She's a dog. She's his dog. She must know.

"Who's there?" a voice echoes from above them. John's breath hitches in his throat, and he bolts to the stairs, Kiwi by his side and his scissors ready to use in his hand. Moran follows swiftly behind as more footsteps begin pounding above them.

"I swear it's Watson!" calls another voice from upstairs. "God, I told you someone was here!"

"Well, get him, for Christ's sake!"

John yanks the front door open and bolts out of it, Kiwi speeding past him and turning the corner. He follows her, Moran close behind. He ducks behind a rubbish bin and pulls the dog next to him, catching his breath in little gasps as he listens.

Lestrade's voice is the first to echo between the buildings. "He's fuc- he's gone!"

John leans his head back against the brick wall behind him.

"Holy fuck," he pants quietly, hoping the cameras can't hear him. "I've really just stolen."

Moran tries to even her breathing. "Holy fuck is right," she wheezes. "We almost got caught, too. That would've been ugly."

"I thought you had bear spray and a knife," John breathes, holding his side with discomfort from running. Moran only laughs and shakes her head.

"It's all bogus," she says. "A mind trick. Even a genius will still feel threatened if they consider the possibility of danger."

"So we actually weren't protected at all?" John asks.

Moran shrugs. "That's an overstatement. I know karate."

John rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on."

"What?"

"You're everything, it seems like. You must be pulling my leg." He swallows in attempt to slow his breathing, holding Kiwi close and scratching her ears to keep her from barking.

Moran grins. "No, I really know karate," she says. "However, it wouldn't help much if we're outnumbered. Which we are." She sighs, grabbing the maps and such off the ground and standing up. "You ready to head back?"

"Yeah, sure," John replies. He stands up and begins to walk in the direction of his new home, rather liking the fact that he just stole from his old one. Because, according to the current John Watson, he loves embracing change.

And this sort of change is one he thinks he can handle.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Adler whispers through the crack in the door.

"Hello, Adler," Sherlock replies, his head hidden by a black hood as he moves to step inside. Adler stops him.

"About John," she whispers.

"Yes, that's why I'm here, obviously," Holmes hisses back, trying to step inside again. Adler's hand shoots out, hitting his chest and keeping him rooted where he stands.

"No," Adler sighs. "What I mean is, he's here."

She lets the door swing open, and Sherlock looks in.

Against the front counter, next to a slowly-burning wax candle, John sleeps on a thin, handmade quilt. He looks peaceful, Kiwi curled up next to him and a playing card on the floor by his side. But everyone looks peaceful when they're asleep. Holmes supposes he's not so peaceful in his head.

The thing about seeing someone for the first time in too long is that you forget all the bad times you've had with them. You ache to go back to how things used to be because your memories romanticise them. Your brain turns them into more of a person. You see them as too perfect, and it's hard to accept that you have to walk past them like you've never known them at all.

Holmes feels this now. He feels it for the very first time.

And it's confusing. What an odd emotion it is, feeling this for someone you know is flawed; someone you've seen fall apart and make mistakes time and time again. He notices how much he still cares for John. And this care is deeper than paying for his food. The care is rooted in his chest, sprouting out like some sort of wildflower that's already half-dead.

John looks like an angel. Perhaps he isn't real. Perhaps he never was.

What a gift John was, Sherlock realises. I was visited by an angel and I left it.

"They kicked him out," Adler says. "So I took him in."

Shock and rage slap Holmes' face, his nostrils flaring as he glares unintentionally at Adler herself. "They what?"

"He didn't tell me any details," she explains. "He just said he needed a place to stay. And keep your voice down."

Holmes, glowering at thin air, steps inside, taking off his trainers to prevent any footsteps from waking John. He kneels down next to him, looking over his face, innocent and fragile as he rests there.

He hasn't seen his face in too long.

Words obstruct his vision as he looks over it, watching the frown lines and the squinting of his eyes. Stressed. Angry. Hurt. Malnourished. Sleep-deprived.

He dismisses the words with a flick of his hand, leaning closer and resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

"Oh, Watson," he whispers. "What did they do to you?"

He looks older. A lot older, actually. Messier, dirtier, more unkempt than he used to be. But that's fine, because he's still John. That makes everything fine.

Sherlock wants to tell him everything he's learnt in these past three months. He wants to tell him how much he misses him and how eager he is to come back. He wants to tell him about how some days he can barely deduce anything because all that shows up is John's name, covering his vision and blocking out almost everything else. He wants to tell him that he's alive.

And the flower that's peeked out of his chest, though innocent and strong, dies as he remembers that he can't.

"Holmes." Adler's stern voice stabs his back as he stares down at his best friend. He eyes the card on the floor and picks it up, reading the barcode and setting his jaw.

"One moment, Adler," he replies softly, turning the card over in his hands. Mycroft used to have a deck of cards like this. He never used it, but always had it in a closet.

"He's been wearing your coat, you know," Adler informs him. "Bloody annoying. I always think I'm looking at you and you came over for a surprise visit. But, then again, why would you?"

"Exactly," Holmes mutters. "I wouldn't." His eyes read over the barcode three more times, glancing at John between each read-through. He knows. John knows about the code.

It takes him an enormous amount of self-discipline to stand up, putting the card back on the floor where it was and moving slowly to the back room, taking his sweatshirt off and trying not to distract himself by thinking about John wearing his coat. Exposing the whip scars on his bare back, he sits on the floor in the middle of the farthest room as Adler prepares to give him more of them.

"I suppose you'd like me to visit more frequently, since you'll be caring for him all the time now," Sherlock says quietly, and Adler chuckles.

"Oh, no, Holmes," she says. "He'll be quite useful to us. He's doing us a favour, really, staying over with military expertise, a phone and a dog."

"Why am I here, then?" Holmes asks. Adler shrugs and runs her hand over the whip, testing its strength before beginning.

"You tell me," she replies. "Maybe because I could throw him out at any given moment if I find him unnecessary."

Holmes hangs his head, the floorboards bruising his knees as he restrains himself from making any threats.

"I'm coming back," he announces quietly.

Adler blinks. "What?"

"I left and everything went to hell," he mutters, his scarred shoulders slumping over. "I wanted to be away for two years to clear my name, but it looks like I'll have to shorten my stay away."

"...Oh," Adler replies, unsure of why she's being told all this. "Alright."

"Ten months," Holmes announces. "Ten months and I'll be sitting back in my seat with John across the room and Hudson down the stairs. And then I'll go back to taking from you instead of needing to be fucking whipped all the time."

Adler shrugs, taking a step forward. "You know, that isn't very sustainable," she points out. "Soon enough, all the food will be gone. What'll you and poor Watson do then? Eat some people for a change? Do you expect me to provide that, too, just because you know I can?"

Holmes doesn't reply to the mockery, feeling Adler chain his hands behind his back and closing his eyes to calm himself down. He's been dreading this. He dreads it all the time. But he's willing to do it anyway. John can't be on the street. Dammit, he shouldn't even be out of 221B, yet here he is.

"Well, enough verbal processing. It's a useless form of thinking, really. Only thing it ever does is annoy the hell out of people and spread gossip." He takes a deep breath and, his ribs showing through his skin as he prepares himself. "Alright, then. Get to it, will you? I've got somewhere to be."

Adler smiles, tugging the whip. It's new, the skin dark and thick, a shiny coating displaying itself on the outside. She gears up, stretching her arms a bit, and finally faces Sherlock's back.

"And try to stay shut up," she reminds him. He's too nervous to nod.

The whip cracks as it hits live skin.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

John bolts upright.

He can feel tears on his face. He can almost still feel the blood on his knees.

He leans over, holding his face in his hands and trying to calm his heart rate. He's haunted by that bloody Holmes. He wishes he would either go away or come back. Staying in the middle of the two options is worse for John than his war nightmares ever were.

Sweat lubricates his back, his breathing heavy as he relives the day again.

This time seemed different, though. Closer.

John's dreams usually sound faraway, muffled and pixelated even when they're loud. But this was different. This time, Sherlock's screams sounded too real. Like he was really there beneath him, bleeding out onto the concrete floor.

He convinces himself he's going insane.

He falls back asleep.


	17. Bone and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes tries to return to the man he left.

"You asked to see me."

His face is broken. Broken like it would be if one got lost in the wilderness and found everything except for themselves. A face where they've navigated their way back home, but they left the entirety of their being behind. The eyes have no substance, even though daylight is shining directly into them. They're gone. He's gone. Even though he's come back.

"Yes," Adler says. She opens the door and invites him in.

Holmes steps inside. The air is thick with dust, musty and warm, like breathing hot charcoal. He stands in the front entrance, his gaze landing on the spot where John slept that one night so long ago. He's almost forgotten his face. He wishes John were sleeping there still.

Oh, and by the way: "Where's John?"

Adler clears her throat, walking past Holmes and leaning against one of the shelves. "That's what I've brought you here to talk about," she says. Her voice is slightly nervous, which makes Holmes nervous. His nose twitches as he awaits whatever information is to come.

"Watson decided to move out."

...Oh.

Holmes furrows his brow. His eyes dart to the spot on the floor, the hardwood cleaner in the spot where he used to sleep but not by much, the dust settling on the surface in a thick layer like snow on dead grass. It hasn't been occupied for a month at least.

"He's moved out with my assistant," Adler continues. "They really hit it off, I guess." She crosses her arms over her chest and stares blankly at the floor. Holmes swallows as the sudden news hits him in the back of the throat. His eyes run back and forth from the doorframe on his left to the shelves on his right. He calculates.

John. In love.

In love with a nice, friendly, pretty lady.

He breathes, folding his hands behind his back and noticing his trainers could use some replacements. He wonders why he's only just noticed now. He wonders if it's possible to replace them at all.

"Alright," he says, this being one of his first words he's said aloud in months. His voice is thick, and he clears his throat to try and make it sound normal. "And why did you ask me to visit?"

Adler smiles softly, looking him in the eye with an attitude of sympathy that he's never seen from her before. Knowing this look is rare, he straightens his spine, planting his feet on the ground and bracing himself for the blow that he knows is going to inexorably hit him.

"He doesn't need my food anymore," Adler explains softly. She adds a pointed look to this, her gaze strong and collected as Holmes blinks uncontrollably back. "He doesn't need my help."

Holmes purses his lips, not wanting to think about what this means. "So?" he prompts. He wants to go deaf. He knows what he's about to hear.

Adler places a consoling hand on Holmes' arm.

"Holmes," she sighs. "I'm going to have to cancel our little rendezvous schedule." She takes a long pause, empathy stopping words from coming until she forces them out as hard as she possibly can. "Although I enjoy our meetings immensely, he just doesn't need us anymore."

Holmes is trapped there, staring at the floor. He offers no response aside from a confused, empty expression and a defeated posture.

Irene Adler has seen this before. She's felt it before. And, even though she has things to hide and it isn't her job to help people move on, she knows this is necessary as it would have helped her more than she can possibly fathom. And she can't help but try and give Holmes what she wishes she had.

So she rephrases the sentence.

"He doesn't need you anymore," she murmurs with a sad tilt of the head.

Guiding him to the door, she opens it and leads him out. His feet move on their own, the torn soles of his trainers hitting the ground with a quiet flop. She stands there for a while and watches him process it all, his hands in the pockets of his shorts and his gaze in the crook where the building across the street hits the hard reality of the pavement it touches.

"Goodbye, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she says.

And, closing the door, she almost feels bad. But it's her job not to feel. That's why she's here in London, after all. To report. Not to weep.

Leaning against the door, she can sense him standing frozen outside. She imagines him standing there forever, looking at the ground in shock.

So she opens the door again.

She even has something prepared to say. It's along the lines of, 'Alright, get in here. I'll make you some food until you're ready to leave. Let's get you out of this heat.'

But what comes out instead is absolute silence.

Because Adler was absolutely wrong.

Sherlock Holmes is gone.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Three cans, please," a man requests, pointing at the preserved beans in a woman's basket. His face is full of dust. His eyes are full of sand.

"And what've you got, then?" the lady asks. "I'm not giving these out for free, you know."

"Not even for charity work?"

The woman laughs, slapping her hand against her basket and tightening its grip around the handle. "We're all a piece of charity work down here. You're not any worse off than we are."

"Well, I'd say that I'm three cans of beans worse than you," the man replies. "Oh, come on. Even just one can?"

"Have you got anything in return?" the lady asks, stubbornly sticking to her statement. She gives him a hard stare, and he sighs before fishing in his pocket and handing her a small piece of ivory paper.

Her eyes read over the raspberry-chocolate cursive on the surface, and she looks back up at his face.

"Oh, I know you," she snarls. "You've got a lot of nerve to hurt-"

He silences her with a look of utter blankness, his features showing nothing, like a preserved animal at a history exhibit. He's a stuffed mink, looking down like he does. Soft on the outside, sure, but dead within. He hands her the piece of paper, and she drops it into her basket, her weak hands closing the lid after handing him a jar of beans.

"So, what brings you to the underground trading centre?" he asks quietly, sitting down next to her. She sighs and shakes her head, her legs crossed tightly beneath her as she looks out at the tube tracks before them.

"I can't believe you're alive," she snarls. "I knew you were a troublesome one. I really did."

"You've got quite the radar, really," he replies. "Impressive." He leans his head back against the wall and stares out with her, as if there's anything to see.

"And you've really got nothing to trade?" she asks. "Even that ink you use. Someone told me it's like ivory and raspberry chocolate. It's beautiful, and I could trade it for more, so if you've even got extra of that-"

"Ivory and raspberry chocolate, did they say?" he interrupts. "Must be quite the romantic then. I've always thought it was bone and blood." He laughs softly, tilting his head back and staring up at the ceiling. "The bone part is just a comparison, though."

The lady's eyes flicker to him. She doesn't usually feel threatened, especially surrounded by all these people. But this man has a very good way of getting under her skin. He's talented like that.

"I'll look into your offer," she says. "Check back tomorrow."

The man gets up, satisfied with what he's heard, and nods. "Good catching up with you."

She swallows, nodding wearily and returning the greeting. "And you, Theo."

The man smiles, shaking his head. His fingers curl up into fists, moving themselves back into his pockets as he looks down at her malnourished figure.

"I'm sorry, Hudson," he replies, "but that's not my name."

He turns, and is eventually gone.

He walks down the street over where Hudson sits. He walks by the Thames and watches the mountain of bodies by the bridges decompose. He smells the death. He hurls over the water. But he stays there and marvels over it.

And once he's bored, he walks away. He likes doing that. He has so much control now that laws don't exist. He can do anything he wants.

He turns a corner and he sees a familiar figure.

He follows it.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

He takes a deep breath.

This is the most nerve-wracking thing he's ever done. And he doesn't get nervous.

But something about this door makes him feel so small. Something about knowing that the most important person of his entire life is somewhere behind it makes his knees vacillate and his stomach twist into a queasy, faint knot.

Holmes stomps one of his feet on the ground, kicking some gravel away and closing his eyes. He tightens his lips, taking deep breaths and convincing himself that he has to do this.

So, though moving it is difficult, he raises his fist to the door.

Knock. Knock-

His knuckles fail to hit it the third time, his hand drawing back and defeatedly falling to his side. The fear coursing through his bloodstream is more than enough to stop him from moving. And this is unfamiliar to him. This emotion. It's so rare that he has this much feeling. And nobody's even dying.

Anticipation punches him in the gut. He stands there patiently, his nostrils flaring as he paces back and forth in front of the door.

Come on, he thinks. Open it. It's just me.

But nothing comes of it.

Turning back to the door, Holmes raises his hand again, and is about to knock once more when the handle turns and it's pulled open.

A man in his fifties stares Holmes down, a long beard running down his chest. He narrows his eyes before turning away and coughing explosively. He swallows, turning back to him and taking a large wheeze of air back in.

"You diseased, too?" he asks. "We're almost out of room in here. Doc can't take too many more."

"Um," Holmes replies distantly, blinking a few times. "No, I'm not ill. I'm here to see John. Watson. Short little guy, both physically and emotionally-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," the man interrupts. "He's upstairs still, I think. Treating the kid with pneumonia."

Sherlock nods slowly, pursing his lips. "Could you, uh... Is now the right time?"

"Well, is it urgent?" the man asks, leaning against the doorway and giving him an interrogating stare. Holmes considers this for a moment, shrugging and shuffling his feet.

"Somewhat," he decides. "It's of high personal importance, although nothing to do with disease."

The man steps aside. "Come in," he says. "Stay here in the front room. Go any further and you'll pick up God-knows-how-many diseases." He turns to a set of flaking stairs. "I'll go get him."

As his footsteps go up to the higher level, the silence comes down, hitting Holmes with a wave of nausea in the chest. He sets his jaw and swallows, looking around the room and trying not to make any unsettling discoveries.

This, admittedly, is not what he'd expected when Adler said John had moved out. Holmes had expected a nice little tent or room to himself; a place for him and Mary and the dog. But this - a warehouse jammed with diseased people - never even crossed his mind. The John Watson he knows would never stoop so low.

How much has he changed since I left?

Holmes must admit that there's no way John has changed more than he has. Sherlock knows things now. There are things he's dying to tell him. He just needs to reintroduce himself first.

Footsteps descend the stairs now. Holmes' heart comes to a full stop, but then he notices that John's steps are different. John has a longer, less even gait, the steps lighter and more broken, and there's no way-

It is John.

He's got a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, his face focused on it as he approaches Holmes from the last stair. He looks so intimidating now. He walks like a sergeant; like he could kill you with his bare hands if he only decided to.

His hair is different, too. It's unruly, swept back by his right hand, the light gold weaving in with a few streaks of grey. He's more muscular now, too, although his face looks the weakest that Holmes has ever seen it.

"Alright, and what are your symptoms?" he asks, clicking the pen and preparing to jot down notes.

Sherlock can't speak. If he could, he'd say that life is his symptom, and the roof, like his note said, was never the antidote. But his mouth is stuck where it is, closed, silent. There's no power for him to give a melodramatic announcement. He feels even more terrified now than he had before.

Because here is John Watson.

But he's someone else.

Holmes looks over him, watching his hand scribble down some numbers on the paper. He looks tired, and irritated, and he really does look a bit ill.

But he's John Watson.

And he is a great man. The best. So this shouldn't matter. This shouldn't be a problem.

"Symptoms, please," Watson repeats, his voice forceful and exaggerated, trying to hide how exhausted he is.

Holmes opens his mouth. "I..."

He doesn't know what to say. Just look up, he urges. Must I tell you everything myself?

His heart pumps. The reality hits.

He's standing in the general area of John again.

And he's still as perfect of a person as he remembers him.

Watson sighs, closing his eyes. "Please just tell me," he groans. "I've had a long day."

Sherlock takes a breath, knowing he has to say something.

His lips part, a small breath dancing out of them.

"I'm here."

John lifts his head in frustration. "Yes, but what are your-"

He stops.

Because here is Sherlock Holmes.

And he's alive.

Watson's features freeze, emotions rotating through his eyes until Holmes can't tell them apart. Sherlock looks at the floor, taking a staggering breath in.

"John," he says, "I know this is a shock to you. I apologise. I didn't know how I could have otherwise stated my existence, so I came here to let you know in person, because the note to you obviously didn't take."

John doesn't blink. He just stands there. His pen drops.

"But I'm alive now. And I'm back. I... I came back for you, John." Holmes explains. He crouches down and picks up the pen, gently placing it in John's hand and closing his much larger hands around it. "I'm not dead, John."

John, whose mouth has been dangling open, closes it as he composes himself. His eyes are confused and angry now, the slideshow coming to a halt and freezing between them. He grabs the pen and moves away, setting his jaw and looking at the floor.

"My name," he says, "is Watson."

Holmes is taken aback, his brow furrowing as John turns and heads for the stairs. "Sorry, what-"

"You are to address me as Watson," John replies. "We aren't married. Refer to me as you should, which is professionally." He pauses, turning back around before heading back up. "You have no symptoms. You may come back if you're actually ill."

He jogs up the stairs.

Holmes is left alone.

For a moment, he's defeated.

And then he isn't.

Running over to the stairs and taking two-at-a-time, Sherlock rushes upwards, his hands grabbing the deteriorating railings to push himself forward as he sprints after John.

"Wait," he says, knowing each step he takes makes him more susceptible to getting a disease, beginning to second-guess his choice to keep going. "There's something really important you need to know. Something I found while I was away. I need you to help me-"

"With what, Holmes?" Watson asks abruptly, whipping around and looking ten stairs down at Sherlock, who is now standing still. "Do you expect to just pop back into my life and expect things to be normal again? You were dead, as far as I was concerned, for bloody long enough where I don't see that as too possible."

There's something in John's eyes that Holmes has been trying to work out this entire time. And, hearing him speak like this, he's finally pinpointed it.

Watson is a soldier again.

He's reliving it; using his past to cope with his present. He's helping people that need it, and he's blocking out emotion.

Sherlock feels disappointment sting his eyes as he understands that Watson is becoming him.

John steps down one stair, his jaw tense with anger as he continues to speak. "I can't believe you did this to me," he says. "Do you have any idea how flaming long I had to grieve? I'm still grieving. It's still there. Fascinating how you being alive only seems to make that worse."

Holmes opens his mouth to interject, but there's no room to do so. Watson has momentum now, all the things he's kept inside over the years spilling out and down the stairs, landing at Sherlock's feet, demanding to be seen by his guilty eyes.

"I cried for you, Holmes. Every day," John spits. "I spoke to you. I prayed for you to be alive. I read your stupid letters. I looked through your drawers. I defended your honour. And I never had the chance to let you go."

"Watson-"

"You put me through all this, expecting me to just take it?" Watson accuses him. "Did you think this would be easy for me? Did you think I would get over you so smoothly that you'd be able to show up and everything would be fine?" His face is red with fury, his fingernails white as he grips his clipboard with all the strength he has.

Sherlock waits to make sure he's done speaking. He watches him fume, glaring down at him in a way he's never seen before.

He feels his voice weaken the more he speaks.

"Oh, Watson," he breathes. "What have you become?"

John silently glares down at him before clearing his throat, shaking his head and diverting his gaze. "I'm not sure," he says, "but it certainly isn't my fault."

His glare tugs at Holmes' throat, knotting it and tying it off. Sherlock takes a long breath as he processes this all, irritation mixing in with his disappointment, the two twirling together into a marbled surface.

"It isn't your fault?" Sherlock repeats slowly. "So I'm the one to blame. Is that what you're saying?"

John narrows his eyes. "You're the one who went out and died."

Holmes raises his eyebrows, scoffing and planting his feet. His stomach feels like fire. His eyes hurt.

There's a pause. They both cherish it.

"Are you even happy that I came back?"

Holmes wishes he hadn't sounded so broken when he asked. But he did. It was unavoidable. Now he only fears that it'll open the gates and offer to break him more.

"That's a completely unfair argument," John counters.

"It's a completely valid question," Sherlock fires back. He can feel anger spreading through his bloodstream. But it isn't the strong sort of anger. It's the weak, crying kind. He wishes it'd dry out and just be the fire sort, but he isn't usually in charge of his emotions anymore.

"It's psychological manipulation," Watson disagrees. "That's something you've kept up over the years, yeah?"

Sherlock grits his teeth, his nostrils beginning to flare each time he takes a breath. His foot moves up to the next stair, and he begs himself to stay strong.

"Watson," he chokes out, "I may know how people work, but I do not manipulate them." He blinks away the fog in his vision. "Especially when they're people I care for."

"And how would you know?" John asks. His anger is the empty, dry kind. Sherlock is jealous of it.

"It's easy to know when you're the goddamn person in control of it," Holmes hisses. Both his feet are on the next stair now as he slowly closes the distance between them.

"Well, it's quite easy to tell once you're on the receiving end as well," John snarls. He looks so unforgiving; so relentless as his accusations pelt Holmes' skin.

But Sherlock understands.

He wouldn't trust himself, either.

He knows firsthand how hard trust is to regain once it's lost. But now isn't the time for sympathy, apparently. John won't welcome it. Or him.

"I'm here to tell you something extremely important," Holmes restates, forcing himself to return to the business at hand again. He isn't here to fight. He's here to get them out of this place.

"I'm working," John says dryly, to which Sherlock nods.

"I know."

Watson's eyes are sharp, cutting Holmes open with a look alone. He's so strong and sturdy, standing there like that. Completely unbreakable.

His voice is too soft as it leaves his lips.

"Then why are you still here?"

Holmes takes a breath, his muscles tense and angry. "You're going to have to make me leave yourself," he says, "because I sure as hell am not leaving on my own accord until you know what you should."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Watson warns, "I'm giving you exactly ten seconds to leave this building."

"And then what?"

Watson's eyes narrow. "Sorry?"

"After that," Sherlock replies. "Will you ever want to hear what I need to tell you?"

John takes a breath. "You've got five seconds."

Sherlock tips his head. "I've actually got three."

"Fine," John replies, his hand curling up into a fist and unfurling again. "And now you haven't got any."

Holmes stays exactly where he is. He doesn't move a single muscle. He isn't sure if he's doing this for the common good or out of pure spite, but he sees no point in giving up and leaving just because of an empty threat.

"Holmes," Watson murmurs threateningly, his left hand gripping his pen in preparation for whatever really is next. "It's your cue."

Sherlock slips his hands into his pockets, keeping his feet exactly where they've been this whole time. He doesn't speak. Watson wouldn't listen if he did.

"Get out," Watson orders, beginning to lose control. "Leave."

Holmes feels his feet grow roots through the floor. He feels them hit the core of the Earth. He feels the soles of his deteriorating trainers become permanently plastered to the wooden staircase they're on.

I'm sorry, John, he thinks as Watson moves angrily towards him.

I can't move, he adds internally as he feels his hands grip his shoulders and shove him backwards.

For, coincidentally, he remarks, moving down the stairs to prevent himself from falling, it's impossible to move when you've got nowhere to go.

His feet hit the solid concrete floor of the room he was just in, and John keeps shoving him back, his palms hitting his shoulders like the impact of a firing gun. He's thrown backwards out the door, stumbling as he lands on the street.

Catching his breath as he stands up straight again, Sherlock has one last thing to say. He watches John continue to glare at him, and finally gives him a final thought.

"Are you happy, John?" he asks. The hot, polluted air scratches at his windpipe as he's submerged in it. The dead, empty road watches him. He feels it. He embraces it with all the heart he's got left.

"You chose this path, after all," he continues. "Violence, irrational thinking, anger, disease... it certainly hasn't chosen you." He blinks as the hot air dries out his overly-saturated eyes. "It got to you, didn't it? The insanity. The collective unconscious; all the crazy people influencing you just because they're alive. For your sake, I hope it wasn't the false sense of freedom that drew you in."

Watson's eye twitches, the dust in the air settling on his skin and burrowing into his hair.

"But it isn't sustainable," Holmes says. "The happiness isn't real. Your eyes are still plagued by the kind of blankness one only has if they're barely alive. And I wondered earlier what that was. I wondered earlier what you've changed into, but I don't need an answer anymore. Because I've been where you are now." He takes a staggering breath. "You're a void, Watson. There's nothing there. It isn't real."

"No," John whispers, so quickly that it's almost an interruption. "It's real. I swear it." He furrows his brow at this, lines showing up on his forehead as he proclaims this to everyone who may be listening.

"One day, Watson," Holmes says, the light breeze flipping his thick curls away from his forehead, "you're going to take a good look at yourself and realise that it's a ruse. It's all a little lie you tell yourself to cover up how desperately sorrowful you are. And then you'll feel it all. All the loneliness, the pain, the internal suffering; it'll all hit you at once."

He takes a breath, his gaze flitting down to his trainers again.

"And then you'll know," he chokes out. "Then you'll know what's truly still there."

He turns away, preparing himself to leave.

"And maybe, from there, you'll know what you've lost."

He feels his own shoulders fall as he tilts his head back and fights to compose himself. He lifts his right foot off the ground, taking one step.

His second step is interrupted.

Watson's voice comes out in little breaths, his forehead wrinkled with fury. "I have never been happier," he snarls, "in my entire life."

And he's sure of it, too. He's not saying this just to argue. He's saying it because it's real to him. It's as real as life and death and this entire goddamned drought. He furiously clicks his pen by his side, almost considering jabbing it into Sherlock's back.

Holmes turns halfway around, hoping he's far away enough where John can't tell he's crying. He nods, sniffling and diverting his gaze. "Believe me when I say I understand."

And, for the first time, they're both quiet for minutes on end.

The wind begins to grow stronger, the rustling of it evolving into a heavy stream of constant movement, plastering Sherlock's shirt to his too-visible ribs and John's hair to the side of his face.

And, for both of them, almost at the exact same time, things start to sink in.

"You're alive," John says.

Sherlock turns his face back to him. "I am."

"So..." Watson glances up at the sky and then back to Holmes again. "Did you ever really die?"

Holmes smiles softly at him, his lips shaking as he forces them into the shape of false happiness. "I did."

John shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and then rubbing his eyes with both hands. He wants to ask how. He wants to know what happened for all this to be even slightly possible.

But more than this, he wants to know why he never knew.

"You never told me."

Holmes sighs, turning his face to the road again. "Why would I have to?"

What he wanted to say was that he's telling him now, and that's all that should matter as there are far bigger problems they need to discuss. But excuses will only push him further back in this conversation. He leaves that part out.

John scoffs. He slides his pen back onto his clipboard. "Oh, I don't know," he condescends dryly, his eyes hardening into unblinking stones. "Maybe because you were my entire life, and having to start a completely new one was one of the hardest things I've ever done."

"Well, maybe you should rethink your logic, then," Sherlock suggests. A long-dead leaf dances through his curls and out as it's blown across the street. "There's no way I took up the entirety of your life. You did things on your own. You had original thoughts and interests and your own time. You're blowing this out of proportion. You're completely romanticising my existence inside of yours."

"I'm not romanticising anything," John counters. "I just think you've been, frankly, a selfish twat." He enunciates the t at the end, making the word sharp and jagged, leaving a rough cut where it lands. Sherlock's features harden. His nose twitches. He takes a breath.

"Do you honestly believe I did all this for myself?" he snarls. If he were wearing a shirt without sleeves, he'd show him each and every whip scar on his shoulders. He'd give him a fucking tour; show him around. Then, perhaps, he'd take that back.

"Well, it seems to me like I certainly wasn't involved in the big masterplan," John replies. "I would've considered dying with you if I was at all included in your little decision."

"And you think I was the one in complete control here?" Holmes asks rhetorically, his voice raising half a step with each reply. "You think I wanted to be stabbed in the stomach and killed?"

"I think you certainly had some sort of agenda," John bites back, throwing his clipboard to the ground, ignoring the papers flying everywhere as he jumps off the front step and over to Holmes. "How much did you know? What did you never tell me? I know there was a good load of things I never knew!"

"Do you, now?" Sherlock asks with sarcastic surprise. "Oh, tell me all about it."

"I didn't know your name until you bloody died in front of me!" John hollers, a vein pulsing through his forehead. "So don't you go making sideways remarks. You have no idea what it's like to hold someone you love as they die!" He takes a step forward, and Holmes, subconsciously intimidated, takes a step back.

"Fuck you," Holmes whispers, almost inaudible but just loud enough for John to pick it up.

Watson forces a terrifying smile. "What was that?"

Holmes feels the threat of tears prodding at his eyes again. He ignores them. The frustration is too strong for him to care.

"I know exactly what it's like!" Sherlock roars back, his hands grasping the air and constricting the life out of it. "I used to lie awake every night, terrified of falling asleep because I'd just have to relive it again-"

"But he wasn't real!" John almost screams, his eyes squeezed shut as he hurls it out of his mouth. He opens his eyes again, breathing heavily and glaring at the broken man before him.

Sherlock is shrivelled as he faces John, furious tears pooling up in his vision.

"What?" he hisses through his teeth. "You're telling me that Theo was less real than Shark?"

"One hundred percent," John growls.

And then Sherlock's hands are around the collar of his shirt, pushing him backwards as he loses complete control over his own head.

"I'll kill you!" he hollers into his face. "I'll have you die and see how you like it!"

"Not if I kill you first!" John yells back at him. "I'll bloody do it, too!"

"After your staggering emotional transition, I don't have a hard time believing-"

And Sherlock Holmes is punched in the jaw.

He lets go of John's shirt, shocked for a moment and immediately tasting blood from his cheek.

Out of all the times he's wondered what John's hands would feel like on his face, he never expected it to be like this.

He feels his tears finally spill over, running down his face and dripping off his nose. He turns to the side and spits out the accumulating blood from his mouth, watching it hit the concrete. His blood has hit pavement too many times, yet he has a feeling that this isn't the last.

He turns back to Watson, noticing the fire in his eyes and the tenseness of his jaw. He sees a man he once thought would never dream of hurting him once; a man that only ever said kind things about him, to him, around him, even.

But, unfortunately so, that man no longer exists.

Holmes doesn't feel in charge of his own body. But he watches it as it punches John in the ribs and kicks him in the shin. He watches John hit him back, shoving him down against the ground and pinning him to the concrete. He feels his hands slap his face until it's red.

He watches them stop.

Only after he's felt them come to a halt does Holmes realise that his shirt is askew, his stomach visible to the entire sky.

John is looking down at it.

A long scar is still drawn across it, right down the middle, where it once demonstrated the full complexity of mortality. Holmes closes his crying eyes and swallows the blood on his tongue, feeling a trickle of it leave his mouth. He wants to stand up, to put his shirt down, to get off of the concrete. But he can't.

John is still looking at the scar, his face blank, his eyes clouded with memories. He drops his fists, standing up and brushing himself off.

He doesn't help Holmes to his feet. That isn't what he's here for anymore.

He walks inside, grabbing Sherlock's coat from behind the door and throwing it out to him.

"You're gonna need this," he reports monotonously as the coat lands next to Holmes. "Especially since there's no way in hell that you're staying here tonight."

Sherlock sits up, the dribble of blood dripping off his chin as he speaks. "John-"

"No," John interrupts sternly. "My name is Watson."

He lingers in the doorway for a bit.

"Holmes," he adds, "I never want to see your face again."

The door closes.

It's done.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Moriarty finds him there, on his knees, hunched over on the ground like a used ragdoll. His shoulders are shaking, and he's clutching his stomach like he's been stabbed again.

Next to Holmes is his coat. It's dirty and somewhat faded, or perhaps just too sandy to look dark anymore. It's crumpled up next to him on the ground, or, rather, he's crumpled up next to it. Moriarty finds this to be a lovely sight. He loves watching people's pain, especially when they're people that he likes. He'd argue that it isn't sadism, but who is he to judge? He's barely even real.

He sees an opportunity here. Lots of personal gain. Buckets and buckets.

So he takes the chance.

"Holmes?" he asks quietly, walking up behind him. He again adopts the personality he once used every day, softening his stance, slowing his pace. He pretends he can feel. And he's a good actor.

He kneels down in front of him, ducking down and looking at his face with an expression of forced concern.

Sherlock's eyes are Autumn-deep red, his irises a Spring-cool blue. His tears are clear, but so are everyone's. His just seem to be more invisible than any tears have ever been.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty whispers. "What in God's name-"

"Who am I?"

Moriarty stops, surprised with the sudden interruption, genuinely confused by its meaning.

"What?"

Holmes looks like a boy as he wipes his tears away with his wrist, sniffling as he lifts his head just the slightest bit to speak.

"Tell me," he says softly, his voice shattering the longer it runs. "Who am I without the half I once never knew I needed?"

Moriarty smiles softly, tipping his head to the side. "Delusional, I suppose," he coos. "All pain is temporary, you know. You can block it out with the snap of a finger. Distracting yourself is so easy, Holmes. Easier than letting things go all on your own."

Sherlock isn't completely listening. If he senses the inviting undertones, he's ignoring them. He crosses his legs, pushing the curls back from his forehead with his hand.

"Why is it that I'm the one who's feeling all of it?" he asks brokenly, his eyes closing as occasional drops fall from the corners. "I wanted him to see me and welcome me home. I wanted to know I'd been missed, to know I was cared for, to know it was so good to have me back again. But why did I even want such a thing? And why is it so painful that I never got it?"

"Maybe," Moriarty suggests slowly, sitting back and supporting himself by leaning on his arms, "he's just a bitch."

"Maybe," Holmes replies, "you shouldn't say that unless you wanna get shot again."

There are a few moments of silence, so beautifully and perfectly timed that they could just as well be lines of a song. Sherlock wishes he could imitate the flawlessness of them on his violin. He wishes he still had a violin.

He wonders if he could imitate the perfection with his voice instead, but he isn't even sure he's still got that, either.

Things are too different. There's no arguing with it.

"It didn't used to be this way," he continues. "Things never got to me. People never navigated their way into my head. A slap to my face never made it past the skin. A punch never hurt my soul."

Moriarty taps the concrete of the road below them, watching the sand and dust begin to collect between the fine lines of his fingertips. "I thought you claimed that souls didn't exist," he points out, and Sherlock shakes his head.

"I'm not saying they do," he clarifies. "It just feels like there is one when you've been hurt."

Jim Moriarty narrows his eyes. "And Watson hurt you."

"He wasn't trying to," Holmes dismisses, and Jim gives him a sympathetic smile.

"Are you quite sure that's true?"

Sherlock takes his coat and puts it on as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. He's quiet. He's quiet because he knows he was hurt on purpose. He just won't say it out loud. Because that'll make him admit it to his conscious self and not just to the traffic in his head.

"I knew you were following me," Holmes utters at the ground. There's a piece of paper in his hand that he's taken out of his pocket, and he watches it as he speaks. "You always seem to be doing that."

"Believe me when I say I'm not the only one," Jim smiles at him.

Holmes catches his eye with his own. "Oh, and believe me when I say I know."

For a fleeting moment, his eyes catch ours instead. It's so brief, him staring straight through our television screens, that you might question whether or not it actually happened.

But then they're back to where they should be. Next to Moriarty, on the tiny cracks in the concrete below him.

"I'm sorry," Jim says, putting a comforting hand on Holmes' shoulder as he changes the subject. "I'm so sorry that he hurt you this way."

Sherlock gives a nonchalant sigh, putting himself back together and deciding it's time to leave. It's getting cold, and he can't afford frostbite when he's already been frozen by someone else.

"It is what it is," Holmes concludes, standing up and wrapping his coat tighter around his skinny, malnourished waist. "He's become exactly what I never imagined he would."

Moriarty stands as well, making an educated guess. "A moth?"

Sherlock only shakes his head. His curls sway back over his forehead again, his lips parting as he breathes in.

"A philophobe."

And he's sure of it. There hasn't been a single thing he's said today that he's more confident in. Like himself, John is afraid of love. So he blocks it out because there's nothing left to do. Alike a garden tool rarely used, he stores it away.

Jim shuffles his feet as they look down the road at the setting sun. "I always thought they were the same thing."

"Oh, but you wouldn't know," Holmes informs him passive-aggressively. Wiping his eyes one last time, he begins to walk, not wanting nor expecting to be followed.

But he is anyway. Moriarty doesn't really give a shit about what he wants.

"I can help you," Jim pleads. "Just say the word and I can make everything go away."

"I'm disinterested in your services, Moriarty," Holmes declines, quickening his pace. Jim begins to fall behind.

"Wait!" he calls as Sherlock begins to walk at a distance just out-of-reach. "I'm talking about something else."

"Then say it before I start running," a snarl answers him. Sherlock's coat-tail starts rippling behind him the faster he goes. He just wants to get away. He wants to never be seen or spoken to by anyone ever again. There's nobody left that he'd like to talk to, anyway.

"Do you remember your first love?" Jim asks, hurrying up next to him and locking their arms together in an attempt to slow him down.

"You're funny," Holmes replies flatly, setting his jaw and pretending he doesn't notice the hands pulling him back.

"I'm not talking about me," Jim explains. His fingers tighten around Holmes' elbow, pulling him even closer as he stands on the tips of his toes and starts leaning towards his ear. "I'm talking about before me. The one thing that ever helped you escape. The one true love you keep running back to."

"What, exactly, are you trying to say?" Sherlock asks. His voice is becoming more agitated, his muscles becoming stiffer, his stance more aggressively positioned.

"I remember that first love of yours," Moriarty murmurs, his lips getting closer to Sherlock's ear. "It could fix anything, couldn't it? Even a punch to the soul. Just one little prick of a needle and everything would go away."

"What the living hell do you want?" Holmes whispers sharply back, feeling intruded at the sudden reminder of his past, the memories twisting his stomach like a balloon. He bares his teeth as he stops and turns to the one person who's still able to get to him.

Jim laughs, looking intimidated as he draws back and puts up his hands. "Please calm down, Mr. Holmes," he breathes nervously. "All I want is a small favour. Just one."

Holmes regains his composure, standing up straight and looking onto Jim's cold obsidian eyes. "And then what?" he asks. "What's in it for me?"

"Oh, simple," Jim replies slowly, getting significantly quieter as he speaks. He leans in, his voice turning into a whisper as he makes his offer.

"I'll give you your first love back."

Not much is broadcast after this.

What's left out of the media is what comes after the sentence stops. The camera switches to another street, where someone is beginning to die. This won't happen, however, for a few more hours. They scream, vomiting up blood as they writhe on the street. The noise echoes, the hideous sound eventually reaching the ears of Holmes and Moriarty, staring each other down.

"I should get inside," Sherlock says pointedly. "I'd rather not die tonight."

There's another muffled, distant scream. Moriarty nods, clenching his teeth in slight discomfort and restating his previous offer.

"Follow me," he says. It's almost a command, the authority in his tone ringing out and mixing with the sound of death, swirling into a terrible cocktail as he speaks. "I'll give you the needles. I'll give you shelter. I'll give you food."

Holmes is hesitant, the cocktail before him enticing yet terribly evil, and he ponders on whether or not he should reach out and take a sip.

"You've missed it, haven't you?" Jim asks. "The highs. The lows. The withdrawals. You've missed the peace. You've missed how much it drowns out everything else."

Just taste it, Moriarty pleads with his eyes. Take a sip.

There's another scream.

Sherlock is torn.

Their eyes lock together, one set confident and the other questioning, both fuelled by hatred and hesitance. The blue and the brown clash like waves on sand, though their expressions are virtually identical.

The offer still stands, the regulations incredibly clear.

Take the cocktail.

The waves leave the sand, falling on the cup just in reach.

They contemplate.

And they decide.


	18. Hell's Cocktail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes learns some things about Swing culture.

«Whiskey's supposed to drown the memory; I've gone from one to one too many  
And the thing that really gets me is how your memory drowns the whiskey»

-Jason Aldean: Drowns the Whiskey

-

Sherlock Holmes is high.

Liquid sunlight ignites his bloodstream, drowning the hunger that tries to put it out. Small, circular bruises trail down his left arm. And oh, how he's missed them. The small footprints of an unclean needle travelling down his skin are footprints that he knows so well, and he finds comfort in still having a familiar friend around. He sighs as he sits up in his new bed, blinking away the fuzzy dots in his eyes.

He feels like shit. But it feels good.

His head is buzzing, all the thoughts inside of it muffled and quiet. However, even though he likes the feeling of them, the injections aren't exactly doing their job.

He can still hear John inside his head. Even though he's a bit quieter than before, he's still there, demanding to be reminded of. He's so prominent, fading in and out, overlapping with the high and then blurring back under it again. His memory is a wave that Holmes wishes would stop crashing.

But regardless of what he wants, nobody can stop an ocean. Not even a drug.

He feels indestructible when he's like this. His knees don't feel as wobbly as they are. His eyes seem to work better than they actually do. He hurts less than he normally would.

In other words, he feels like everything is fine and back to where it should be, with London on its feet and him on his. John is just a minor exception that he'll have to learn to live with.

He has a legitimate bed now. It's a mattress Jim probably stole and hid away during the police raids, and it's one of the most goddamned comfortable things he thinks he's slept on in his life.

He sits on it now, living with the unusual silence from his head, staring peacefully at the walls around him. He's got a nice room, the windows dirty yet not boarded up, the light filtering in through the dust and dirt and landing softly on the brown wallpaper before him. Ignoring the circumstances, he feels safe here. Like nothing could hurt him.

He hears the door open, but he doesn't turn to see who it is. He doesn't have to.

"Are you all dressed and everything?" Jim asks innocently, standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. "The Sw- my gang would love to meet you."

Sherlock turns to him, challenging the black holes in his eyes with a simple look.

"Is that an offer or a command?" he asks, barely able to tell if he's really saying it aloud. His fingers tap on his knee, over-energised and all too ready to jump up and start the day. He doesn't even mind meeting people. Not now. He's up for anything now.

"Which do you prefer?" Jim asks as Holmes bounces up off the bed and puts a new shirt on. "You'll be mandated to do it anyway-"

"Mandation and damnation. Fascinating how they've both got the same letters yet..." Sherlock takes a hyperactive breath. "Just... switched around. There's a word for that, but God knows what it is. Anyway, isn't that fucking funny?" He spins around, checking the room for his old belt and then remembering that mandation isn't even a word to begin with, which wasn't his initial point at all and is therefore a useless thought.

Jim puts a strong hand on Holmes' shoulder, his hollow gaze pensively scanning his face.

"I do hope I haven't provided you with too much," he says, his words quiet yet unnecessarily articulated. And then, with a meaningful look: "It seems you may be a bit too excited to meet anyone."

His passive-aggressive tone is somewhat irritating to Sherlock, who expresses this by violently pacing the room as he's done all morning. "Tours and meetings are pointless," he says. "We're all going to end up dead, so why should I meet other corpses-to-be when I could just..." He sighs. "...be high?"

"Because your drug privilege is on the line," Moriarty snarls at him. "Now get out here and get acclimated."

Sherlock sighs and turns to the bedroom dresser, opening the top drawer and finding some skinny jeans that look oddly new and an assortment of nice wool socks. He stares blankly down at them for a moment, suddenly overly-aware of how grimy and ragged his current clothing is. He grabs the trousers and a clean shirt, slamming the door in Jim's face and, for once, following an order. Not like it's out of respect; he just can't afford to lose the one thing keeping him on his feet. He's already lost all the others.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

One thing about this place that's so staggeringly different is the amount of light in it.

The brightness of all the rooms and halls screams against the fogginess of Holmes' brain. He can barely even face it. His eyes bolt themselves to the floor, his muscles tensing as Jim leads him through the building.

"They'll like you," Holmes hears him say. "It's rare we recruit someone who's so... striking."

Sherlock barely listens. The musty floorboards permeate his nostrils, the dry air hurting his eyes. Jim's hand tightens around his arm, pulling him to a door and pushing him through. Sherlock's feet hit concrete tile and his eyes hit even brighter lighting than before.

He blinks away the light, buzzing in his ears as he tries to adjust. He sees people staring at him. Lots of people.

This is one gigantic room.

"Hello, all," Jim's voice calls out next to him. "This is our new recruit."

Sherlock opens his eyes a little wider, looking out over what's before him. His hyperactive thoughts start ricocheting around his vision, obstructing it as he observes. One thing he's able to tell from the start: nobody here is sane.

Their eyes, like Moriarty's, are a deep, coal-hued, corpse-esque shade of nothingness - a colour he's been introduced to on far too many occasions. They bore holes in his new shirt. He watches it happen.

"His name is Holmes," Jim continues. "I will train him in. Not one of you is to have any kind of relations with him, either, unless it's strictly professional. One wrong move and you'll end up in the Loon Room."

Loon Room?

Holmes feels his throat tightening as he stands motionlessly at the front of the room. There are furious nods from the audience, and then Moriarty completely changes course.

"Now," he says, his tone unusually expressive, "Group A-seventeen, you're on street three-forty. X-three, you're on twenty-ten. Everyone else is on general duty." He sounds normal for once, even though he's rattling off instructions that are anything besides that. Sherlock turns to him, surprised at the fluctuation and stress in his tone. So many dynamics. Like the monotone was all one big show and he forgot that he's still supposed to play it.

A large group of people leaves the room through a door on the far wall, getting on some familiar-designed bicycles as Sherlock stares skeptically at Jim.

Is he... ordinary?

No. There's no way he isn't who he shows himself as. Absolutely no way. Not even a good actor could be so cruel for so long.

Maybe it's just the substances messing with his head. Just an auditory hallucination.

Holmes looks back at the floor as Jim ends his announcement and turns back to him.

"Once you sign our contract, I'll have to get you one of those bikes," he tells him. "We craft them ourselves. I mean, we take abandoned ones, fix them up and paint them. You've ridden one before; one with our symbol on the handlebars and everything. Used it for days in a row. I do hope you liked it, because you'll have to start using one to get around."

Holmes says nothing. He just follows Jim as he leaves the room, watching the splintering walls of the hallway as they move through it. He feels his feet ascending a staircase, but he doesn't pay attention to it. All he processes at the given moment is how much energy he has, how much thinking he could do right now, and how this is likely one of the only places he's been to recently that hasn't smelled of disease.

"Up here is where all the group leaders sleep. This is the hall where we make all the big decisions. It's primarily just a declaration of status, though, which I'm sure you gathered already," Jim says flatly. "And up this next flight of stairs is the Loon Room, which is an identical hall with an extra door on the end so the crazies can't get out."

"Elaborate," Sherlock demands bluntly, not concerned about being courteous if he has enough steam to be the opposite. He follows Moriarty up the last set of stairs and stops in front of a large oak door.

"They're all ill," Jim says. "Nothing too contagious. We've isolated them and all. But it's their brains. They've got the Kuru disease."

Holmes' interest is suddenly peaked as he recognises a term he hasn't come in contact with before. More gently now, he requests: "Elaborate?"

"I'm sure you're aware of prions," Jim explains, opening the door and leading him through. "No DNA or RNA. Can't be burned or frozen or sanitised away. Come in contact with it and it slowly pokes holes in your brain until you drop dead with a sponge inside your skull. Interesting stuff, really."

An additional note:  
Kuru is also often found in  
farm animals, and is more  
commonly recognised as the Mad  
Cow Disease. Although most  
common in Western-European  
countries during Apocalypse I  
in the twenty-first century,  
it's also been an epidemic in  
Papua New Guinea as a result  
of a cultural problem - the  
same main problem here in  
London.

"So you're keeping everyone with it in captivity?" Sherlock asks, looking through the small glass windows in each door. There are up to two people per room, all with wildly different behaviours. One is laughing maniacally. Another is jumping up and down. There's one that only sits there in the corner. He feels like he's at a zoo, watching all the animals going crazy from the isolation. Perhaps this is the modern equivalent.

"We don't have enough energy to kill them," Jim says. "And why be humane when you can learn and research them?"

Sherlock squints again as light from a bright bulb above him hits his eyes. "You're just saying that because I'm more likely to agree with it."

"Oh, you know me too well, Holmes," Moriarty replies. "Far too well."

Something is off about this place.

Holmes knows it's obvious, whatever it is. And it isn't the fact that he's being pushed into this group for drugs, or the way Jim has complete control over his every move, or the fact that he's ninety-eight percent sure that he's just met the Swings. It's right in front of him. It's just hard to think the right things. It's too loud and bright to think clearly.

Just turn off the lights, he wishes internally. Turn off the...

Lights.

Holmes looks up at Jim, his blurred vision distorting his light skin, making it look all smudged and blurry and unnatural like the man he truly is under all that flesh. He doesn't look at his eyes anymore. He's scared of them when he's high.

"Lights," he hears himself say.

"Yes," Jim replies nonchalantly. "What about them?"

Sherlock turns around, the maniacal laughing from the rooms around him making his muscles constrict under his skin as he looks at the bulbs on the ceiling. His breath is staggered, his eyes confused, his mind trying to calculate it all.

"You've got electricity."

Jim shrugs. "Actually, it's solar," he replies. Holmes doesn't believe him, replying with a simple, suspicious hum.

"It's funny," Motiarty continues, beginning to walk back down the hall as Holmes starts feeling oddly concerned. "We've got so much energy from it that we could light up both this place and Buckingham Palace itself if we wanted to!" He laughs softly, and Sherlock plants his feet just to make sure he's still standing on the floor. It's sometimes hard to tell.

"It's not true," he states, shrugging casually and trying not to show the concern for his own well-being bubble over into view.

Jim tips his head to the side. "What?"

Sherlock's heart leaps in his chest as he contemplates his safety, knowing this man has killed him once physically and twice emotionally and is fully capable of doing so again. So he's careful with his words - which is somewhat difficult for him to be while high - as he tries to remember the blueprint of the building and where the exit doors are.

"The air is too dusty," he explains. "Too thick and smoggy, too. You can barely see a sunset anymore, let alone getting enough light to provide an overabundance amount of solar energy for a building of this immense size. The dust in the air wouldn't take long to build up on top of the panels, either, and I'm sure nobody goes up on the roof to clean it every week-"

"The Swings are very responsible," Jim counters with a false smile, his voice even more airy than the cloudy emptiness of his pupils. "You'd be surprised at the sorts of things we do around here."

"Ah, so you are the Swings," Holmes interrupts quickly. "I thought they were supposed to be intimidating."

He is intimidated, though, more than he can even begin to express. He died once, and he hated it. He sure as hell isn't up for doing it again. However, at the hands of the man standing before him, anything under the clogged sky could happen if he only put his mind to it.

"I know you're scared," Jim points out absently. "And I also know you think you've made a mistake with your decision."

Sherlock nods, not daring to deny a thing that they both know is true. "I took the Devil's goblet," he breathes. "I drank Hell's cocktail."

"And don't deny that you didn't love it," Moriarty adds. "The feeling is fantastic, isn't it? Feeling checked out? Dissociating? Taking a holiday from the world?"

Holmes purses his lips. He can't deny that he likes the feeling of being high. But he can deny loving it.

One of the Loons laughs loudly as Sherlock takes a step down the hallway again. As he prepares to speak, he lets the drugs subside. He lets the wave roll back and the ocean fade in. And he lets himself remember John Watson.

"I'd argue that love is not the right term," he says. "I, in fact, certainly can deny my love for highs, for dissociative episodes, for taking a holiday from reality. Because it isn't love. There's no substance or mutual care. It doesn't love me, so therefore I don't love it."

"But it helps you," Jim manipulates innocently, his mouth scowling without expression. "That heavenly seven-percent solution. It's there for you when life isn't. When your goldfish isn't."

"It only waters me down," Holmes argues, standing his ground as best he can. "And it isn't love. I know now what it feels like to really care about someone. And... what it's like to be cared for in return. It isn't an escape; it's a haven. And there's a fine line between them, leading me to conclude that love and cocaine are completely separate subjects."

"Are you sure?" Jim asks.

Holmes sets his jaw. "You're wasting my time."

"Name one person that's been with you since you've met and still cares consistently. Someone who's never given up on you or shut you out."

This is an unfair point to Holmes. To him, love is never flawless. It makes mistakes. It chooses the wrong people and stays when it shouldn't. But it also forgets to stay when it should. And this never means it's gone. It doesn't mean it never existed, even if half a relationship may wish that to be the case. It still lives on in the other half, reviving itself because it's too important to disintegrate away.

Affection to him isn't a scoreboard or a constant variable. It's just a force of nature. It's like gravity in the sense that it's there whether or not you believe in it. No matter the skeptic or cynic, there's always something they care for. There's always a bolt in the box of nails.

Sherlock is silent for a few moments as Moriarty sighs and nods, pretending to be disappointed.

"It's so sad," he says, "It's absolutely devastating, seeing you like this. You've become so human since that little Watson happened upon you. All the sense in you became clouded by sentiment and heart and feeling. It's barely even fun to tamper with you anymore."

Sherlock swallows nervously. "Then why do you do it?"

Jim smirks, his hands in his pockets as he stands neutrally in the narrow hallway. "Pain is just so enjoyable for me to spectate," he says. "Frustration, confusion, anger, disappointment... all with so much entertainment value. It's just more fun when you see it on the face of someone clever like yourself. And, in addition, even more enjoyable when this said person is so flaming gorgeous."

Holmes fights to keep his facial expressions neutral. He tries so hard not to feel.

Does anyone really still care about me?

Everyone has likely forgotten about him by now. Either that or they'd be furious as hell to see him again, just like John was. Holmes tries to shut out the thought, giving himself the excuse that everyone would react differently. He pretends he believes it.

"I suppose Teddy loved you to the very end," Jim ponders. "He was quite the faithful one."

"I still haven't figured you out, you know," Holmes says blankly. "All that stuff about Theo. Pretending to be someone just to ruin me. Why would you do it? Why are you who you are? What are your motives?"

"Would you be surprised if I told you I didn't have any?" Moriarty asks, and Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest.

"Everyone's got a motive. If you had no reason to do this then you'd likely be doing something else-"

"It's fun, Holmes," Jim admits. "It's so goddamned fun to mess with people until they don't know what's real. I love fun. I live off of it. It's my personal seven-percent solution."

Their eyes lock together, both sets more furious than the other. Holmes twitches his nose and bites his lip. Moriarty does nothing.

"Do you even know what's real?" Sherlock asks. "After all, you're around yourself more than anyone else, and I doubt one's immune to their own body."

Jim reopens the door to the stairs, facing it and preparing to go down.

"No," he says coolly, his sharp stare stronger than any percentage of cocaine Holmes could ever dream of taking. The pupils of his eyes alone have claws dull enough to puncture his skin, the ends so angular that they go right through with just a little push. "My entire life, I've never known whether or not I was awake. I've always felt I was... away."

His hands grasp the railing of the stairs, the old wood rough to even the most insensitive touch. His feet lead themselves down each one, the rhythm of the thuds soothingly muffled. It would be a calming sound if the Loons just behind each step weren't laughing so loudly.

"Perhaps you're right."

Moriarty stops on the step he's on, turning back around and facing the man who once cared for every bone in his body. The man who didn't previously want to snap them in half.

"How so?"

Holmes begins descending the staircase behind him. His thin, lanky figure moves quickly under his light amount of clothing, his curls bouncing as his feet dance downwards.

"Perhaps," he suggests, reaching the bottom and stepping onto the previous floor, "we're all just crazy little things, and we're all just asleep."

Jim follows thoughtfully, momentarily forgetting his agenda and giving into the possibility. "That certainly would explain quite a bit, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock nods, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "It'd explain most everything, I'd say."

Jim breezes past him, directing them both to another unexplored room. "And that's why I never asked."

Holmes' lips tighten as he holds his tongue. He knows they've got knives here, and he doesn't want to lose it.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Dinner in the company of the Swings is something one would associate with some medieval film about the early Vikings. That is, if they're ordinary. Holmes, however, sees it as suspicious and overall very odd. 

They're at a long table made of what he can only guess is pine, with small platters located along the centre. There isn't much food, but something catches his attention: it's all meat.

He can't remember the last time he ate meat. His mouth salivates as he stares at the small amount on the communal plate before him, the fumes smelling absolutely wonderful, the food itself looking like - if it only existed - came from Heaven itself.

Jim stands at the end of the table, a black shirt fitted tight around his chest as he leans over and begins to speak.

"We have a very special recruit with us today," he announces, looking pointedly at Sherlock, who looks pointedly back. "So, in honour of him joining our forces, I'd like him to eat first."

All heads turn to Holmes. His thoughts turn away.

The food could be poisoned and he could be the only one that doesn't know. In fact, anything he touches or has touched at all could have been rigged or laced with something beforehand, so he stands and makes his position very clear.

"I come from a family where we honour eating together to show our strength as a unit," he fibs, "so, although that's very kind of you-" He shoots a suspicious look at Moriarty. "-I'd rather we all do the same."

Jim gives him a smile that he can't quite decode. "Alright," he says. "We will respect your traditions." He motions to the group with a twirl of his first finger. "Everyone, dig in."

There's a loud outburst of noise as the people rejoice at the announcement, their grimy hands barging through the chaos and grabbing desperately at the food. Sherlock and Jim expressionlessly stare one another down. Holmes feels a scowl inadvertently mask his lips.

Once everyone quiets down enough to hear, scarfing down the food and leaving bits of it on their deprived lips, tangling them into the moustaches of the men, Jim gives Sherlock a tense expression to try and comprehend.

"Having a rough day, Holmes?" he asks, and the spectators start to notice that the two men are the only people still standing.

Sherlock tightens his lips. "I'm experiencing withdrawal, as the substance you've given me only lasts half an hour."

"Oh, by all means," Jim says, gesturing to the door with his arms, "go have some more. I've got endless amounts."

Holmes taps his first finger on the table, agitation boiling his blood in a way that it normally wouldn't. "Under the circumstances, I'd rather not."

"Trying to wiggle out of our agreement, are you?" Jim asks, narrowing his eyes, and Sherlock shakes his head, not minding the few onlookers that are actually listening to their exchange.

"I'd rather not become dependent again," he replies with an exaggerated replica of a friendly smile.

Moriarty nods. "Fine."

Holmes returns it. "Good."

They both stand up, towering over the table and its filthy inhabitants, not paying attention to them eating the pig shit before them like it's the last thing they'll ever put in their shrivelled mouths. It's a game now. They look one another up and down, challenging, calculating. It's all a matter of who will be the first to sit down.

And, for the first time in his whole life, Moriarty loses at his own game.

Sherlock is the last one standing at that godforsaken table. And, though somewhat miraculous to him, it's even more so to the others, who cast uneasy glances at him as he bathes in the victory of superiority for just a moment before sitting down as well.

Everyone's eyes are on him now. The last man standing. The most powerful status there is in this small, insignificant moment. Their eyes are expectant. Their faces are uncomfortable.

He takes it this has never happened before.

So, in attempt to spite his opponent even more, Holmes acts as normally as he possibly can. He makes it look as if, in his world, this is one of the most common occurrences there's ever been.

He reaches out to one of the plates and takes a single piece of meat, suddenly noticing his hunger as his thin fingers pinch the end of it and lift it into the air, the light meat flopping limply as he brings it over to his mouth and takes a small, cautious bite.

The food doesn't last long in his mouth, though, and he spits it out onto the floor almost immediately after it hits his tongue.

It's too sweet to be meat. Sweet, of course, and yet so tasteless. It makes him wonder if he even still has a tongue.

Coolly setting the piece of meat back on the plate, he ignores the people scrambling to grab it - along with the chewed bit he spat on the floor - and stands up once more.

"Moriarty," he says as respectfully as he possibly can on a cocaine crash, "with all due respect, what the hell did I just put in my mouth?"

Jim smiles forcefully and stands up as well. "We don't use that word here, Holmes," he warns.

"Ah, right. My apologies," Sherlock replies. "What the fuck did I just put in my mouth?"

There's a chilled silence as the side-conversations and chaotic hollering comes to an abrupt, somewhat-unsuspected halt. The air becomes so cold that Holmes begins to miss his coat again, which is in his room with fifteen more doses of cocaine that he's so close to deciding he needs. He feels the need for comfort. The cold in the atmosphere isn't the safe-and-cosy kind.

"If you don't like the food," Jim murmurs at a level so soft and quiet that it'd be lost if anyone else was speaking simultaneously, "you are not obligated to eat it."

"Thank you," Sherlock replies courteously. "In that case, I'll be exploring the building."

He steps over the bench he's standing above, walking through the door and pulling it shut behind him.

He doesn't go to his room.

He goes up two flights of stairs and through an extra door, his feet landing in a hallway he was in just earlier. The automatic lights turn on above him, and he hears a maniacal shriek echo from the farthest room away.

He reaches the first door, looking in through the plexiglass square and observing what are referred to as the Loons.

They're sad to observe. And he loves tragedy. He adores looking. It's enjoyable to him; an escape he can't even get from an injection. Watching other people suffer is just a reminder of how okay he is. And, in a sense, it's the strongest high he can ever put himself on.

But, strange as it is, this doesn't give him a reality check in the positive sense.

This makes him want to escape.

They're all flowers. They're attached firmly to the floor, wilting in their places, surrounded by nothing except for plywood walls and the doors he's looking in. The only thing they're doing is dying. They rarely move or speak or do much else at all.

As he moves through the hall, he's distracted slightly from the sadness of it all once he catches someone's eye.

It's an older man - possibly in his late fifties - standing against a back wall. He's skinny and frail, although he's functioning. Wobbly, but functioning.

Holmes moves over to the door, keeping eye contact with the man through the window. He stands there silently, the brown colour on the walls closing in on the silence until he decides to speak.

"Can you hear me?"

The man shakily begins to walk towards the window. Because he, indeed, can hear him.

The glass is thinner than expected. And that's finally come to an advantage.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Things Holmes has learnt in the past fifteen minutes:

The man is named Tobias Lane (1)

He has roughly four months to live (2)

Everyone in the Loon Rooms are there due to contracting the Kuru disease (3)

Lane is kinder than he looks.

He's shaky and twitchy, and he doesn't have too much of a train of thought, but he's kind. And Holmes has grown to really like kind people, as he's so deprived of positive attention from the people he cares about that any substitute will easily do.

So he's grown to like this man in the past quarter-hour.

They both stand on either side of the plexiglass window, their breath fogging up the surface as they speak to one another as quietly as they possibly can.

"You said you got this disease roughly two months ago?" Holmes asks.

"Maybe three. I don't know," Tobias replies. He shrugs, tremors even hitting his shoulders in little waves, his long and grey beard scratching against the condensation on the window each time he twitches. "But I'll tell you one thing."

Sherlock leans closer, surprised that seen possible to do without hitting the glass. "And what's that?"

Lane's muffled voice ebbs through as he drops his voice as low as it can go.

"You need to get out of here."

Holmes swallows nervously, repeating his most commonly-used word of the day.

"Elaborate?"

He doesn't even need an answer. Leaving has been on the agenda all day long. It's been there ever since the first cocaine high came to a close and he remembered exactly why he stopped using it.

But an answer is still useful. Information only gives him extra reason to leave.

Lane glances around the room with paranoia as he replies, the shuddering of his body linking through his feet to the floor and then straight to Sherlock's anxious knees. His nose twitches. His eyes look like they aren't real.

"It's from the food."

Holmes swallows, his anxiety even more elevated now. "...Food?"

Some of that food - whatever it was - has been in his mouth. He could be at risk.

This is so wrong.

"I hope you didn't eat any of it," Lane murmurs. "It's people. There's nothing else to eat, so they get shipments from Watson's hospital and the people living in the underground. Nobody wants to deal with dead bodies themselves, so the Swings snatch 'em all up as a deal."

"Watson?" Sherlock whispers. "...People?"

Lane nods solemnly, his eyes still and stagnant even though the rest of him isn't.

"You have to get out," he says. "Leave as soon as you can. Trust me."

Holmes nods. "Thank you," he whispers, "for this information."

Lane nods. Holmes backs away.

He's accompanied by an echoing laughing fit as he descends the staircase. His thoughts, however, still manage to scream louder.

Watson's hospital.

People.

He remembers associating the Swings with cannibalism. And, while trying to eat, it never crossed his mind that it might be the case.

I'm so stupid, he realises. I'm bloody incompetent. How could I not connect the dots?

It all starts catching up with him. It becomes hard to breathe. His heartbeat raises. His throat tightens.

Grasping the front door, an even larger feeling of doom washes over him as he realises that it's locked.

He can't get out.

He's trapped here.

Swallowing the lump in his throat only for it to come back, Sherlock hurries down to his room.

Cannibalism, he thinks to himself. Cannibalism leads to Kuru. That's why the Swings are all, to some extent, Loons.

Closing his bedroom door behind him, Holmes sits on his bed and holds his head in his hands.

He feels like shit. And it does not feel good.

He's never been one for escapism. Physical tricks and manoeuvres have never been his specialty. But he's going to have to at least try and slip through their fingers. He needs to get away.

"You'd be surprised, John," he remembers himself saying, "at what simple human instinct will block out to keep the body alive."

He doesn't care how much it's going to take. Sherlock Holmes needs to escape. And, for the sake of everyone else, he feels the sudden urge to prevent anyone else from falling into the trap that he has.

To keep the body alive, Holmes knows he has to start blocking out emotion again.

Because, for his own sake, he needs to put himself first.

And, for the common good, someone has to die.


	19. Rancid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary goes into labour.

"Hello, my love."

The words shoot themselves effortlessly out of Watson's mouth, falling directly at Moran's feet. God knows whether or not she accepts them; she's never said them back.

"How far apart are your contractions?"

"Oh, maybe ten minutes?" Moran guesses, sitting back against a wall and holding her belly like it could explode.

"Tell me when it gets to four," Watson reminds her for the fifteenth time that day.

"M'kay, Watson," Moran smiles. "How's everything running around here now that I'm not much help?"

"It's honestly stressful as all hell," John whispers. "Don't try to help, though. You just need to prepare for everything."

"Okay," Moran smiles. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Watson replies, turning and closing her door behind him. He doesn't add his usual tagline of "my love" to the end. As his smile fades, he realises the phrase really hasn't ever been reciprocated.

His hand leaves the rusting doorknob.

He leaves the hallway.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Watson feels guilty about bringing a child into the world.

That's all he can think about as he monitors three children with pneumonia in the room dedicated to lung problems. There are some other things to think about, too, but he wants to distract himself from going too far into those.

Right now, he has one problem at hand.

Guilt.

Even though he's never met it, he loves his child. He loves it with all the love he's still got. And he feels like an absolute bastard for being the reason it exists.

The world has never been worse.

There's nothing.

And he's forcing his own kin to be born into it.

"Can you take a deep breath for me, please?" he asks the boy in front of him, holding an old, rusted stethoscope to his malnourished ribs. "Sorry if this is cold."

The boy takes in a thick, wheezing breath and lets it go again. As far as John can tell, he's got weeks to last at most.

His child might turn out like this boy.

A small excerpt later written in Watson's journal:  
Why is it that people are born if all they ever do is die?

Kiwi enters the room now, her long, uncut claws ticking against the concrete floor as she visits the patients one by one. Her eyes can see their pain. Simultaneously, looking into them temporarily heals it as well. He can't stand that she has that power for everyone else. He's never felt relieved, but he supposes it's because he doesn't care enough to pay attention to her for too long.

"Get some rest," he tells the boy. "And remember to cough, alright?"

The boy leans back slowly until he's flat on his back. His withering body looks so breakable and fragile as he becomes still. His skin, dark and smooth, now looks pale and drained of all colour. It won't be too long now. Soon enough, this room will be one patient emptier.

"Doctor Watson?"

John looks back at him as he moves on to the next patient. "Yes?"

The boy sounds gurgley as he speaks, wrenching John's chest and making him glad he's wearing a mask over half his face. "Am I ever gonna go outside again?"

Watson's heart pinches itself, the veins igniting with millions of stings full of sorrow and loss. He bites the inside of his cheek with a conflicted feeling in his stomach.

Do I tell him he's dying, he asks himself, or do I let him live?

But looking into the young eyes before him, Watson doesn't take long to make the unprofessional decision.

He nods to him, trying to provide hope more than anything else. Because that's what everyone needs, regardless of age or health or situation. Even he needs hope, and he's the one giving it.

"Of course," he lies as smoothly as he can. "I'm sure. Very soon."

He turns away, feeling his face crumple in remorse as he checks an older patient's lungs. They sound murky and exhausted, but they've improved a lot from the week before.

"And how am I doing?" the man asks. He's got a slight Southeast-Asian accent and a kind, tired face. John gives him a smile and swallows the lump in his throat.

"You're actually doing very well."

He never tells anyone anything else.

He's never told anyone the truth.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"You look completely beaten, Watson," Moran remarks as he drags himself back into their makeshift bedroom. He throws himself onto the small, tattered mattress and puts his hands over his face, sighing and knowing there's barely even a point for him to be a doctor if everyone is just going to end up dying from their ailments regardless of whether or not he's there.

"Watson?" she asks. "What is it?"

John sits up suddenly, looking at her square in the eyes. A sudden burst of rage overtakes him, likely because of the stress, and he gives in.

"Moran, for Christ's sake, have you once-"

He's interrupted by three knocks on the door, and he feels a headache start to roll in as it's opened and a little girl peeks inside.

"My mum won't wake up," she reports.

Watson turns to her, dread flooding his bloodstream and permeating his pores. "Have you got anyone else in your family here?" he asks as softly as he can manage.

"Yes. I've got my sister and my daddy-"

"Good," Watson interrupts. "Now how about you go and spend some time with them? I'll take a look at your mother."

The girl nods and steps outside, letting the door close itself again behind her.

Watson seems to melt into himself, his nerves tighter than they've ever been, knitting themselves around one another and not bothering to be tamed. He curls up on his side, rubbing his throbbing temples.

"Fuck this," he whispers, even his voice strained as he says it. "Let's all just not wake up. That'd be lovely."

"Oh, Watson-"

"Don't-" he interrupts strongly before correcting his tone. "-call me that."

There's a short silence as Moran does a double-take. "Sorry."

"We're having a child together," Watson growls, still in a foetal position in the corner, his eyes squeezing themselves shut. "Like I was trying to say earlier, I don't remember the last time you've called me by my first name. It's kind of a tradition when one is in love, is it not?"

Moran scoffs. "Yeah, because we're so in love."

Watson's heart sinks in the angry way. "Are we not?"

Moran sighs slowly. "Watson, I never even see you," she whines. "All you ever talk to me about is how stressed you are and how much you hate all this. How much you regret this child. How much you wish the year was twenty-oh-seven again. Granted, that's if you even talk at all. And, oh-" She hunches over and grips her belly, her face scrunching up in discomfort as she breathes through another contraction.

Watson doesn't tell her that he barely cares about her, either.

If it's true that she isn't in love with him, then it's mutual. He hasn't loved her in the way he's able to love other people. It's never been real with her. Just a physical thing; a temporary replacement for the loss of people in his life in general. So, if they aren't in love, so be it.

Watson jumps up, but not towards her. He grabs the doorknob and twists it open, barely looking back at her as he announces: "I'm going to take care of that body," and closes the door behind him. And perhaps it's just the insanity starting to get to him, but a bit of his brain wishes the corpse would be hers.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The three signs of a failing relationship, according to Sherlock Holmes:

| 1. Oversensitivity to casual remarks. A strong couple won't give a shit about what one another says. A weak one will be dysfunctional and petty enough where anything can push one another off the edge.  
| 2. A sense of obvious overall stress when interacting with their partner. Couples are biologically wired to help relieve stress and anxiety from one another.  
| 3. Wishing, even for a moment, that the other was dead is usually a good tell.

"She's been dead for a good three hours," Watson estimates, standing up from his crouching position by her body and turning to his two assigned messengers. "Get to the Swings immediately. Let them know to send someone down quickly. The slower they are, the more she'll rot."

The messengers nod. The taller female one begins to leave, but he stops them both.

"And if I find you two haven't been in much of a rush, either, you'll have a chance at being the next ones they'll pick up," he mumbles to them. "I'm exaggerating, of course, but please hurry."

They give him an obedient nod and rush off as they always do. They're so good at running off. Watson envies it with every chain around his wrist.

Hauling the female's corpse over his shoulder and carrying her down the stairs, he lets his mind wander for one of the first times today.

He's going to be a dad.

And I'm sorry, he adds, as if the child-to-be can hear him. I'm sorry that you have no choice but to exist.

He wishes he could feel the excitement that he would if the world wasn't Hell on Earth. He wants to know how it is to have so much anticipation pent up inside oneself that it'd be hard to control one's own brain. He wants to feel excitement. He wants to feel love. He wants to feel nervous.

He wants to feel.

He hasn't let himself do that in ages. Specifically, he hasn't let himself do that since the third of September, 2009. Not feeling made sense to him in the given circumstances. It was convenient and easy and took up less time. In the moment, it had seemed to be the most reasonable choice. It remained that way, in fact, for multiple moments afterward, spanning from getting status as a doctor to surviving terrible spats with Moran to facing the fact that his reason for not feeling has been an illegitimate reason all this time because Holmes is out there, living and breathing, dancing and sleeping and existing in the delicate way he always has.

He still hasn't quite come to terms with this. He hasn't had time to think about it. But, in an odd sense, that's okay. It's actually preferable. By default, Watson doesn't like thinking about him, and he'll take any excuse he's got to avoid it.

He feels weak as he carries the body down all the stairs. He hasn't eaten much recently, even though his clients pay him in any preserves they've got on hand. Rice and canned beans hold people over for a while, but pretty soon he's gonna have to start taking some risks. He'll need iron and protein and substance, and he doesn't bother wondering about what that may entail.

His body is heavier than the one he's carrying outside. Not by weight, but by baggage. The woman he's just brought to the front of the building doesn't have any worries or stress. She's dead. She's lighter than a feather. She's weightless, her muscles and skin all replicating the mass of an insect on John's shoulders. But, in contrast, he feels like he's made of lead.

He regrets so much. He worries about so much. He stresses over so much. He's overworked, underfed, sleep-deprived and guilty. And all of that winds itself up into small, hand-woven bags, dropping on his arms and pressing down on his chest until it's hard to breathe. It's hard for him to believe that he may be a moth when he's definitely too heavy to fly.

Opening the front door, Watson sets the body down on the pavement in front of the building, leaning it against the wall as he sits next to it on the front step, waiting.

He feels the insane need to talk to it. He doesn't give in. He won't let himself slip into the realm of mania. Once one does, they can't cross back over.

He hears some faint yelling seeping out through the upper level of the building, but he lets himself ignore it. Right now, in this small moment, he allows himself to take a break.

He breathes in the painful air. He lets it go.

His eyes are closed as he slowly sighs it out. He can't remember the last time he's done anything even remotely similar to this. It's been nonstop, unassisted work for about six months straight now. No wonder all his hair is bleaching itself silver.

Remembering he forgot a step of preparation, Watson opens his eyes once more and takes a razor blade from his back pocket. Dragging the cadaver closer to him, he begins to shave off her hair.

This is a deal he's made with the Swings. They can eat the bodies if he can keep the hair.

There are multiple good uses for human hair, and they've all become more apparent as resources have become more scarce. Weave it together and you can make blankets. Braid it and you could make hats or scarves. It's warm and isolating and extremely useful, especially regarding temperature.

He's only shaved half of the scalp in front of him when the door behind him bursts open and his extra messenger stumbles out of it. As the door opens, the faded noise that he had been hearing reveals itself as screaming.

"It's your mistress, Watson," the messenger breathes, her short, dark fringe falling over her eyes. "The baby is on its way."

Watson jumps up and leaves the hair on the step, tucking the razor back into his pocket and bounding inside. Desperately following the screams up the stairs, he sprints into Moran's room to find her squatting on the floor, attempting to deliver their child on her own.

"She's in a lot of pain," the messenger explains as Watson, panting, assesses her in the doorway. "I only spent two months in medical school, but I checked for dilation along with giving her a basic examination and it seems she isn't doing too well."

John swallows, hoping his hands are counted clean enough for this. "Stay outside and wait for the Swings," he tells her in a hushed voice, leaning over to her as he tries to slow his erratic heartbeat. "When they get here, have them come up and speak directly to me. I can't have them messing up any orders."

"Yes, sir," the messenger replies. "Any other assistance needed?"

"Later," Watson replies. "We'll deal with this as it happens."

The messenger nods and races back downstairs. John, feeling his pulse up inside his own brain, crouches down by Moran and winces as she so deafeningly screams.

"Can you lay on your back?" he asks rhetorically, grabbing her shoulders and leaning her back. He gently pushes her onto the mattress, examining everything and realising something absolutely terrible.

Seeing his strained face, Moran takes a pained breath in. "What is it?" she unintentionally hollers at him. "What's wrong?"

"Um," Watson replies nervously, his breathing increasing as he wonders whether or not to tell her.

But he's lied too often to his patients. It's time to correct it.

Taking a wavering breath, John tells her the whole truth.

"We might have to give you a little help," he says. "It's in a breach position. Its leg is slightly visible, meaning we may have to remove it... surgically."

Moran's face twists into a mixture of pain and fear.

"No morphine?"

Watson reaches back into his pocket and takes the blade back out.

"Mary," he murmurs softly, trying to sound as comforting as he can. "I'm going to need you to take a deep breath."


	20. Asymptotic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does his first favour for the Swings.

Death is inevitable.

You can run from it. You can take supplements and stay in shape and live off of lettuce as long as you live. You can keep your teeth clean and never touch a cigarette and refuse even the weakest cocktail available. You can rise late. You can rest early. You can keep your seatbelt buckled and your helmet clipped futilely 'round your sheltered little head. But you are going to die.

Another point: death is necessary.

Dying is absolutely inescapable, but this is for a good reason. If nobody ever died, there would be too many everybodies. There'd be no room. There'd be no food. There'd be no shelter or resources and all the everybodies would turn into nobodies as they slowly died off for a lack of necessities. It'd become a paradox.

What Sherlock would be able to  
put into words if his head  
didn't hurt from withdrawal:  
The moment when you stop dying  
naturally is the moment you'll  
start dying worse.

Holmes has known this for his entire life, and tells himself he's come to terms with it.

Death can happen in a multitude of extravagant or otherwise unexpected ways. Simultaneously, it can also happen in predictable, ordinary ones. You could die of cancer, or you could die by falling out of your bedroom window whilst inebriated, hitting a few ledges and posts on your way down. You could have a drug overdose, or you could break your neck with a wrong movement in a dance tournament. You could forget to turn off a stove or sit in an idling car for too long or wait too long to remove an abscessed tooth. It's just so easy to die. Humans are so absolutely fragile that just about anything could shut them off.

He isn't quite sure where on the scale of normality his certain situation falls, but he knows for certain that he's in a difficult one.

On one hand, he wants justice. He wants a happy ending, even if it only means for people he's close to. He wants to get away.

But on the other hand, Sherlock wants to stay alive.

He's been trying to choose between the two for as long as he knew the choice was present. And he still can't figure out which is more worthwhile. Choosing between selfishness and selflessness can often be one of the hardest things one ever has to do.

Dying for the sake of others is good. It's just and moral and angelic. But then it's all over. Anything else you could possibly do to make the planet a nicer place is gone. You're gone. So he isn't quite sure which is best.

However, Holmes thinks he's going to choose both. And he thinks he's going to do it soon.

He's going to stay alive. And he's going to make sure this situation ends, beginning with Jim Moriarty himself.

Right now, though, it's just a matter of running away.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"I've thought of it."

The brown accents of the darkened room swirl with Holmes' words as he speaks, twirling with his vanilla-seed-and-cinnamon voice until the ambience of the place is something of a marbled cake. His head is fuzzy, but it's more conscious now. More aware.

Sherlock, sitting on his mattress as per usual, turns nonchalantly to a silent Moriarty, who stands in his doorway with a look of blatant disappointment sewn into his eyes. His pupils are like little buttons. He's almost a voodoo doll. Perfect to impale. Perfect to prick and stab. An open invitation. Come to the party.

Jim uses his privilege of movement frugally, finding himself stiller than he's perhaps ever been. Both their frustrated heads hurt. They pound.

"Thought of what?" he asks eventually upon receiving no explanation. "Are you just trying to shy out of the matter at hand, which was how you acted at dinner-"

"There is one person who loves me unconditionally," Holmes states, standing up. "I can name one person who has always been by my side."

Jim squints. This is absolutely unnecessary. There's no reason to discuss it. It had been rhetorical, for fuck's sake, what he had said. Yet here they are, keeping petty scores like children on a playing field.

Holmes elaborates.

"Hudson," he says. "She's never given me up."

And it's true.

Through all the drugs and tragedy and boys, through the family problems and the mistakes, Martha Hudson has never once turned her back on Sherlock Holmes. She's the mother he's always wished was the one who raised him. She's the woman he looks up to most. He loves her undeniably, and she loves him back. And that's a love that can't be broken. It's a bond one can never slice through. Holmes finds himself missing her now, and tells himself to stop thinking. All it's doing is making his head hurt, anyway.

Moriarty nods blankly. "That's fantastic," he whispers, staring off into the floor and preparing to move away from the tedious subject. "Good for you. Now-"

"I've been thinking," Sherlock interrupts, stating everything as passively as humanly possible for the sake of dramatic effect. "I don't really like cocaine anymore."

His eyes are strong as they pierce through Jim's lifeless expression. Lifeless like the paper wings inside of him. Motionless like his hurting body. The two of them are alike in this small way, and knowing this oddly makes Holmes feel less isolated.

"That's unfortunate," Jim replies, lifting his head and meeting Holmes' eyes. "But you can't leave."

Holmes' mind begins racing with tactics of slick manipulation, picking apart multiple separate possibilities to find the one where he convinces him otherwise. He tips his head, and his entire brain tumbles with it. "And why is that?"

Jim pulls the door shut behind them, the room becoming significantly darker as the energy-saving bulbs weakly fuzz above. He whispers, every syllable sounding like lightning on dry grass. Crisp, smoky, dangerous. It's fascinating what a voice can tell you about a person.

"You can't go," he whispers, "because they'll just put you back with me anyway. The people just love C2309 and M0492, and they'll always have a way to keep the two labels in the same jar."

Holmes sets his jaw. "You know about the codes."

"Everyone who's been saved from death knows about the codes," Moriarty replies. "We're all just Sniffers, aren't we, Holmes?"

Sherlock swallows, his eyes darting to the floor. "I'll never call myself one."

"Being ignorant isn't the same thing as proving something wrong, you know," Jim replies robotically. He moves forward, even his breath cold as it hits Holmes' skin. "Without Newton, apples would continue to fall." His pointer finger moves downward in front of his face, his teeth whistling as he illustrates a dropping object. As it stops, his lips pop, and his eyes flicker back to Sherlock's again, seeming almost teasing. Taunting. In absolute control.

"I'm not," Holmes emphasises, "a goddamned Sniffer."

Moriarty smiles softly, his eyes remaining hollow and cavernous as he does.

"You can't leave, my fellow Sniffer dog," he whispers. "So you'd better make the most of it."

His hand touches Holmes' arm, running gently down, his fingers trailing to the backside of his hand. The contact gives Holmes the shivers, not because he's scared or intimidated but because it's been so long since he's felt such a sensation. It's been so long since he's been loved.

So, even though he wants to get rid of the man in front of him, he can't help but accept what he's offering.

Sherlock has been so sickeningly deprived of affection that this alone gives him what feels like a high. It's something he didn't know he was longing: touch. Caring touch.

He lets him keep going. He isn't quite sure why.

"They chose me off the streets, did you know?" Jim asks softly, interlacing his fingers with Holmes'. "They found out I was a sadistic psychopath, and they thought I'd add a perfect run of drama to the whole bit."

"You led me to believe that you were only a Sniffer because they saved you from death," Holmes interjects, wishing he wouldn't love the feeling of uneasiness he has.

"I lead people to believe lots of things," Jim fires back.

Holmes makes no advances, yet declines none, either. He can feel his lungs working a millisecond too quickly. He feels his heart rate catch.

"They gave me prompts and ideas and assistants. I even took a few acting classes. It was a lovely deal, really; all I had to do was report back to them every once in a while and carry a tiny camera around on my collar," Moriarty continues, leaning in and whispering, "And I'm bloody glad I agreed to it."

"Are you?" Holmes asks. He sounds unconfident, like the eggshell façade he's been carrying around has finally been dropped on the vintage hardwood flooring. "Or are you only glad you've got someone to control?"

"Well, it's that, of course," Jim admits. "But you're also the most breathtaking person I think I've ever known, and we wouldn't even be in this room together if I had rejected the idea."

He's speaking normally again, like he's slipping. Like all his dramatic nothingness never existed and it's getting too exhausting to keep it up.

He meets his eyes.

"I mean it, Holmes," Jim whispers now. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever killed."

And, for some twisted reason, this is meaningful to both of them to a surprisingly incredible degree.

They stand there for a few moments, still and frozen, Jim wondering if he's allowed to do the one thing Holmes has been allowing this entire time. Not like he cares what Sherlock thinks. He reminds himself that caring isn't on the agenda.

And so he does what he's been meaning to.

His lips are dead as they feverishly attack the ones of Holmes, but they haven't felt more alive in their entire lives. His hands tangle in his hair. His breath braids itself in and out of his, and they become darkness lit by a flame.

Moriarty can't quite explain it, but Holmes has changed since he returned. Like his eyes were peeled open and his wings were set on fire. The moth became the flame it was fatally drawn to.

Holmes, however, has a bit more of an explanation for the phenomenon: It wasn't until death that he began to feel alive.

Dying was the kind of experience that made him accept how mortal he is. How, one day, he's going to die again and nobody will be able to bring him back.

So he lets himself live now. He doesn't filter or block things out. He doesn't shut things away. He exists, and he feels, and he loves.

Jim's strong hands push him back towards the bed, and he simply accepts it. It feels so nice to be loved, even if it's superficial. When you're desperate, it doesn't matter if it's not real.

As the day grows deeper and their exposed skin becomes more ignited, Holmes can't help but to think of John. As his hands grip desperately to Jim's shoulders, all he can fathom saying is his name, sweet and gentle on his tongue. The only name he ever wants to speak.

John is the person he has always wanted to be loved by. John was the one he used to be able to find comfort in, along with some small, mutual form of caring. So he wishes it were him here with him. He wishes that breathing "Watson" could only make Moriarty change into him. He can't harness this power, however. It's a stupid thought to begin with. It's impossible.

Nevertheless, he feels the flame inside grow just a bit brighter as he remembers how John Watson used to be, and he discovers that sometimes it's best to pretend.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"I think it's time for you to start earning your keep here," Jim says bluntly, tucking his shirt back into his trousers and smoothing his messy hair back to where it had originally been. "We can't just house you for free."

Sherlock is sprawled diagonally across the bed, sullenly staring up at the ceiling and beginning to remember why he wished Moriarty were dead.

"What do you want me to do, then?" he asks weakly, his fingers twirling around one of his own curls as he stares off into nothingness.

Jim shrugs. "For a start, you could pick up a body. All you have to do is wait for someone to report a dead person and then go pick them up. Bring them back here once every one-to-two weeks and that'll easily get you this room."

"Is that my only option?" Holmes asks. "Because that's bloody disgusting."

"Would you like to be the one to prepare the people to eat, then?" Jim asks coldly. "Because all you have to do is skin them, gut them and chop them up. Oh, and remember to put some in a little bag and send it off to Irene Adler. She gets a monthly shipment from us."

"Shame," Sherlock remarks. "I thought she was clever."

"Get some trousers on, Holmes," Moriarty instructs dismissively. "Meet me in the commons in under ten minutes. I'm sure there'll be a body for you to retrieve by then."

Holmes sighs and drags himself to his feet, doing as he's told and grabbing his frayed skinny jeans from where they sit on the floor. Ruffling his unkempt hair as he pulls them on, he grabs a shirt from his drawer and pulls it over his head.

His feet feel heavy as they make their way through the building to the dining area. Perhaps it's because he hasn't eaten since he arrived here, or perhaps it's just all the stress getting to him, but they're heavy. Metal, almost. He doesn't feel like he should be able to move them. Like his joints have been rained on and rusted.

All the noise around him is muddled, and he doesn't mind. He finds it peaceful to not be able to hear what people are saying. People are so obnoxious and pessimistic that things are rarely worth hearing anyway.

Taking a seat on top of the long table and dangling his feet over the edge, Holmes swings them back and forth, watching them routinely follow the other but never quite sync up with it. Like they're asymptotic.

Asymptote. He's surprised he even still remembers that word. But he likes that he's remembered it now.

He holds his chin in his hand, thinking about this stupid bloody day and how terrible he's been as a person. From getting with the person who killed him to thinking about killing him back, Sherlock has seen brighter, more ethical days indeed.

He and Moriarty, in a sense, are asymptotic. They're so similar, but never in their lives will they ever really match up. Never will they see eye-to-eye or feel heart-to-heart. They're as contrasting as they are alike. Mostly because Jim is a lying, manipulative, sadistic, psychopathic fraud just trying to get attention on television. He's just trying to get off by making people bleed, both physically and mentally, because the intensity of their pain is shitty enough to be gratifying for the man. And that's the main subject about which they'll never agree. That's the one mark short between them; the reason they'll never intersect.

They'll never match. In fact, Holmes believes Moriarty is asymptotic with the entire world.

Nobody will ever line up with Jim Moriarty.

And that's why he has to die.

Holmes suddenly feels his presence near him, and he turns to see his stiff figure sitting on the bench next to him.

"Waiting for your first job, Mr. Holmes?" he asks professionally, and Sherlock grimaces at how two-faced he can be.

He doesn't reply. He doesn't have to. They both know exactly why he's sitting here.

They're two of seventeen people in this spacious room, and the tension between them is devastatingly tectonic. Like any wrong move at all could cause the entire ceiling to collapse. So they both stay silent, one of them trying to bury the other deeper into his cult as the other fantasises about having him dead.

They silently wait there for nearly twenty minutes before the door opens and a large man rumbles in, bringing a gust of hot air with him.

"Pick-up from Watson," he announces. "Fresh body. Female. Died of dehydration caused by vomiting. Should be safe to eat."

Holmes has no idea why he does it, but he's the first to stand up and offer himself for the job.

"I'll do it," he hears himself say. Which is an incredibly stupid thing of him to do, but of course he only realises this after it's been announced. "I'll pick it up."

As he sets off toward the one place where he isn't welcome, Holmes prepares himself yet again to stare into the face of the man who isn't who he is. The face of a man who went through the wrong kind of metamorphosis and grew shrivelled, sharp-ended wings. The man who doesn't want to see Sherlock's face for the rest of his life.

Well, if Holmes' existence bothers him so much, he'll just have to fucking deal with it, because his face isn't going anywhere and neither is he. And, Sherlock adds internally, I've got a job to do. We both do. We can be professional about this. Like adults.

He mounts a Swing-branded bicycle, the design that he used to like so much now leaving a bad taste in the back of his throat as he pedals on. There's a small trailer attached to the back, clearly handmade, and he passes the time by deducing it in his head. He hasn't given anything a thorough evaluation in a long time. Too long, he decides. Far too long.

He figures the wood is maple. Not treated, since it's slowly decomposing with the rain damage and moss growing on the edges. The wood seems to be chopped and split rather than cut and sanded, so it's been likely harvested from a dead tree with a common axe. Three years old at most, assembled by a member of the crew who clearly had no background knowledge of how to build things.

Laying on the trailer are a few coils of rope. He supposes that's for tying the body down. He shudders at this thought, the discomfort making him pedal faster and faster until he finds himself flying down the streets, his tyres skidding as he rounds the sandy corners and makes his way to Watson's makeshift hospital. His hands grip the handlebars as if his life depends on it, and he remembers the last time he had Swing handlebars under his palms was when John was pedalling next to him.

Shut up, he tells his own brain. It only pretends it'll listen. Its fingers are crossed behind its back as it promises.

Holmes slows down as he reaches the building. There's someone waiting outside for him, and it certainly isn't Watson. It's a woman, and she's guarding what Holmes can only guess is the body he's been sent to pick up.

"You from the Swings?" she asks as he dismounts the bicycle and parks it just by the front step.

"I am," Sherlock replies. "This the body? I mean, obviously it is, but am I allowed to take-"

"You're supposed to talk to Watson first, actually," she interrupts. "Don't worry; I'll keep it safe. You can just head on upstairs. He's delivering his mistress' child right now. Follow the screams."

An odd sensation hits Sherlock's stomach. This is new. This feeling... not quite abandonment, but something very close.

"He... His child?" Holmes asks. "So he... he settled down, then."

The woman only stares at him, her sharp, impatient gaze forcing him through the front door and up the stairs that he was just so recently shoved down.

And she's right. It's easy to find the screams.

Stepping up to the closed door on his left, Holmes finds himself hesitating. Because Watson never told him he was going to be a father.

When Sherlock came back, he never told him a single thing about his life, so he naturally assumed things had stayed the same.

But they're so far from the same.

Watson has moved on. He's left him behind. Found a woman.

Sherlock just doesn't matter anymore.

He'd hoped that the punches John had thrown at his face would possibly have relief behind them. He hoped that the anger was just a mask for how much he had missed him. But no. They were just angry.

Shut up, Sherlock tells himself again. We're here on business, not emotion.

Holmes takes a deep breath and turns the doorknob, pushing the door open and setting his eyes on something that he definitely hadn't expected. He takes a sharp inhale of breath, feeling almost sick looking at the scene before him.

The floor is covered in blood.

Watson's hands are lost inside a rather large horizontal incision on the stomach of the mother-to-be, the blood from it running down his arms. He barely even notices Holmes walk in.

"John," he alerts him, his insides turning violently at the sight, "I'm guessing this is a bad time."

Watson turns his head to him, a bout of fury glazing through his already-stressed eyes. He doesn't have to look to know who it is. Holmes is the only person that has ever called him by his first name since this bloody apocalypse began. "What the fuck are you here for?" he hisses, and Sherlock closes the door behind him.

"I'm here for the body," he replies, watching shock run through John's face just like the anger did. "Look at what I've become. A goddamned Swing."

"Well, at least you're on my side, then," John barks, focusing back on his terrible project. "Grab me the scissors."

"Where?"

"In my bag. Now!" John calls over the screaming. "Shit, I said now!"

Sherlock brings the medical bag over, unzipping it and handing him the scissors. He feels the lady grab his hand. Seeing her pale, agonised face, he lets her.

"Okay, Mary," Watson instructs her, "you'll have to take one more big breath, alright?" His face is pained, beads of sweat running down his forehead, traces of blood on his beard. Holmes has never seen him this way before. Powerful. Strong. Like he's back in the war.

John lines the scissors up with the thick gash in her belly, and Holmes is able to look away and shield his eyes as the blades close together. Mary lets out another blood-freezing scream, her hand tightening so hard around Sherlock's that he's afraid she'll break his bones. Instinctively, he takes his other hand and rubs her arm, trying to be as comforting as possible through it all.

He wants to throw up. He's starting to notice the smell of the blood.

"Thread a needle," John commands. "When I tell you to, you'll have to hand it to me and take the baby from my arms. Once you'll do that, close a clip around the cord. They're in the front pocket of my bag." His words come out in shallow, intense breaths, straining and raspy as his stressfully crumpled face focuses on his work. Holmes does as he's told, doing as much as possible with his teeth until he's able to free his hand from Mary's grip.

John grunts as he desperately reaches in and guides a small body out of the incision. A few small spurts of blood come with it, and it finally glides into Watson's arms.

"Alright, now," he says, and Holmes gives him the needle, grabbing the baby and clipping the umbilical cord. The blood from its body saturates his sleeves as he holds it, unsure of what to do as Watson stitches Mary up as quickly as he can.

The baby coughs and begins to cry, and it's loud enough that Holmes takes a while to notice that Mary's screams have significantly slowed down.

Blood still drips out of her wound as John begins stitching it, the layers of skin and fat layered by a thick coating of deep red. The mattress beneath her is saturated with the substance, and so are Holmes' jeans.

Her voice is raspy and weak as she says it.

"John."

Watson freezes in place, halfway through stitching up her belly.

She called him John.

Her face is pale and sweaty, and she begins to emanate terrified sobs.

"John, I have to tell you something."

There's a stunned silence hovering in the air. Holmes turns to face John, whose expression is one he's never set eyes on before. So blank, but so full of everything that it's hard to label it as it is.

"No," Watson says, going back to stitching. She can't die on him. She won't. "No, no, no-"

"I'm a Sniffer, John," she sobs. "I'm a spy."

Holmes swallows and holds her hand again. He feels like it's his job.

Sitting cross-legged in all the blood, he props the baby up on his knee and squeezes her palm in hopes that it'll help. She faintly squeezes back.

John finishes stitching her up, desperately grabbing gauze and tape and sealing the wound. "Right now is not the time to tell me that," he says. But Mary is adamant.

"They sent me to act. They wanted me to spice things up for television," Mary chokes. "They do that with lots of people. I pretended to love you. And I promise you that I care for you now. I promise I'm no longer pretending."

John turns back to Sherlock, ignoring her attempts at coming clean. "Call for Stevenson," he instructs quietly. "They'll take care of the baby."

Cradling the child in his arms, Sherlock stands up and leaves the room. He closes the door behind him and walks into the main space.

The silence of the building is so unusually heavy that he's afraid to break it. People are staring, silently mortified at the amount of blood on Sherlock's knees. Not a single cough echoes through his ears. Not a single sniffle.

"Stevenson?"

An assistant raises their hand in the corner, standing up from their place by a patient. Holmes feels weak as he motions with his head to the baby.

"Watson told me you'd take care of it for the time being."

Stevenson nods. They walk over and gently take it from his arms, giving him a sympathetic nod and bringing it to another room.

Holmes, for a moment, doesn't know what to do.

He soon finds himself back in the room with Mary and John again, although he isn't completely sure how he got there. Mary looks like a ghost, and Holmes rushes over to take her hand again.

"Thank you," she tells him. "You're a good one, you know. I used to watch you on telly."

Sherlock can barely find his voice. "Oh?"

"You know what it's like to lose someone like this," Mary continues. "There's no better person to be there for Watson other than you. And no better two role models for our baby."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't try to say anything.

Watson's head is in his hands as he sits against the wall. He's barely moving. Mary's moving even less.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" she asks.

Holmes clears his throat, his voice breaking as he replies. "It's a girl."

Mary smiles softly. "Is she beautiful?" she asks, and Sherlock takes a wavering breath before he replies.

"Yes," he says. "She's the most beautiful baby you've ever seen."

Kiwi pads in through the doorway for a moment, nuzzling Watson's arm as Mary nods her head.

"Name her Rosie."

Holmes fakes a smile, his heart racing in his chest. His stomach is still sick now, but for a different-feeling reason that he doesn't quite understand.

"That's a beautiful name."

But the sentence leaves his lips too late.

Mary's fingers have stopped squeezing his hand back. Her eyes have stopped blinking. Her smile has left her expression.

Sherlock knows this look all too well. Her eyes have the sightless, marbled look to them, a silver glaze rushing over the surface. Although they're still looking directly at him, he knows that aren't seeing.

She's blank.

"Watson," Sherlock whispers, his throat tight with unwanted emotion. "John, come here."

It's simple as simple can be.

Mary Moran has died.

Kiwi's nails tick on the floor as she leaves the room and John's head slowly lifts from where his hands have been hiding them. He crawls over to Mary's body, staring down at it in a quiet kind of shock.

It takes a while for it to sink in. It takes a while for his soldier to go away.

If you were to ask Sherlock Holmes in the year 2007 what he thought was the most devastating thing imaginable, he would have told you something scientifically proven, like that the end of the world or hurricanes or disease outbreaks would make a good list.

If you were to ask him now, though, he'd tell you that the saddest thing you could ever go through is seeing John Watson cry.

It starts out quietly at first, as most sonatas do. It's so soft and light that the normal ear would possibly fail to notice it being there. But, as everything else is quieter than it ever has been now that the screaming is gone, it's just noticeable enough for Sherlock to process.

"John," he says, his hand hesitantly moving to his back in a consoling manner and resting between his crumpled shoulder-blades. "John, I'm so sorry."

There's a delicate crescendo in John's voice, becoming more intense as the sentence runs through his head. He begins to sob like a child, because the soldier in him just can't take the shot.

"I had wished that she was dead," John cries. "I was convinced I didn't love her so I told myself I wished it were her body I was sending away-"

"Oh, John," Sherlock murmurs. His hand strengthening against John's back, he pulls him into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around his waist as John's grip around over Holmes' shoulders. Watson buries his face in his neck, his body shuddering in traumatic devastation.

"It's even worse," he says, "because I know she won't come back like you."

Holmes' stomach is wrenched by the pain in that, and he tightens his arms around him. "I am so sorry," he whispers. He can't think of anything else worth saying.

He finds his right hand sifting through John's hair, his palm resting on his neck as he tries his best to ease his pain.

He's wished he could get to embrace John like this ever since he came back. He's wanted to hold him and feel at home again and know that everything was okay.

He never wanted the hug to be like this.

Watson only weeps into the collar of his shirt, stopping every now and then to take a vacillating breath.

After a long time of this, he lets go.

Pulling back and drying his tears with the back of his hand, John really makes eye contact with Sherlock Holmes for the first genuine time since he died.

And they're like the universe.

It eases his mind to focus on them. All the colours and speckles of stars orbiting around his irises remind him of how insignificant this all is. And, although it's usually quite daunting, this time the thought gives him immense comfort.

"So you're a Swing now," he says, his voice thick as he speaks. He tries to distract himself with the conversation. He tries to forget how much he's hurting.

"Well, kind of," Holmes replies thickly, both of them ignoring the pained redness on his eyelids. "I'm trying to get out of it. I was only in it for..." He trails off, deciding not to burden him. "Anyway, I'm trying to work my way out because they only ever eat people and I haven't eaten since Tuesday."

John's crumbling eyes light up in alarm. "Oh, God, take some food then," he offers, his nose stuffed but the words sincere. "I've got jerky and potatoes on the table in the corner. Bring some with you when you... when you leave."

Holmes smiles, although it barely reaches his eyes. "Thank you."

They're both quiet for a few moments, their eyes drifting to the floor. Holmes considers taking John's hand like he took Mary's, but he stops himself. It's different holding the hand of someone you've kissed before. It's less comforting and more affectionate. So he keeps his hands where they are, cradling their empty selves in his lap.

"When you leave," John says brokenly, breaking the careful silence, "will you come back?"

Sherlock nods slowly. "Of course I will."

"Soon?" John adds.

Holmes nods. "Soon."

He stands up, helping John to his feet. It's been about an hour and a half since he arrived. The body outside must be starting to rot.

Grabbing two potatoes and a bag of jerky from the bloodied table, Holmes stuffs them in his pockets and prepares himself to leave.

"What's all that on your back?"

Sherlock remembers with a rush of dread that he's wearing cropped sleeves and his whip scars are exposed. Turning back around, he smiles and clears his throat.

"Nothing," he fibs, approaching Mary's stiffening body and beginning to pick her up by the ankles.

"I'll help you," John chokes out, his face melting as he grabs her by the armpits and they both carry her down the stairs. Holmes pretends he doesn't see John break into silent tears again. Simultaneously, John doesn't reveal that he can see healing needle marks trailing up Sherlock's arm.

It's the longest, most exhausting amount of silence Holmes has ever experienced. And, quite like life itself, it only lasts a minute.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

I watched you die, Sherlock thinks as he ties Mary's body on top of the other corpse in the small trailer. It's hard for him to come to terms with. It only took a moment for her to just stop being there. And he saw the switch turn off.

Turning back to Watson, he's only able to utter one sentence as he rests his hand on his shoulder.

"Take care, John."

Watson, being loyal as he is, agrees to try.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The Swings, Holmes expects, are looking for him now.

He left the bodies outside their main door a few hours ago, collecting his things from his room and immediately running off in the direction of the underground. Specifically, he ran to the one person who was there for him through it all.

He's curled up by Hudson now, cooking the two potatoes over a small fire as he tells her absolutely everything she's missed. She's taking his existence quite well. Either that or she's just clever and knew all along that he made it out alive.

When she isn't looking, he ties off his arm at the bicep, taking a syringe out of his coat pocket and plunging the needle deep into his vein. Because he told a lie earlier.

He doesn't actually mind the feeling of cocaine.

They end up sharing the potatoes with another person across the station from them, mostly out of fear that they could be dangerous, but a bit out of generosity as well. It's hard to tell. With all the events of the day along with the seven-percent solution running up through his brain, he isn't absorbing much of his surroundings.

After eating and talking for hours with the only mother he's ever known, Sherlock falls asleep in Hudders' lap.

He dreams of Watson, sometimes smiling and laughing and sometimes crying like he did today. He dreams of John on the night he had too much wine. He dreams of him throwing him out of his clinic and solving Jim's messages in Morse. And, through it, Sherlock realises that he was wrong all along.

John Watson is still the same person.

He's been broken a few times and grown back crooked, but he's still John. He's still the caring, unbreakable soldier he's always been. He's still smart and strong and empathetic. He's just a little older and a little more lost.

And then Holmes thinks of something he should have said earlier. Something he should have thought of when he was at a loss for words.

Hudson hears him murmur it in his sleep, his innocent face looking as young as he was when they met while he rests. She smiles, ruffling a hand through his hair. In an odd way, she has the feeling that things are going to get better very soon.

"I love you," Sherlock had said.

And he meant it. For he finally started to understand what it means.

After all the years where he thought love was pointless and unnecessary, an emetic flaw that everyone faultily seemed to have, he's finally coming to terms with why it's so important to human beings.

There's no denying it. He loves John Watson.

And, as whatever's out there is his witness, he'll take any pain that comes with it.


	21. Origami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Swings find that Holmes has run off.

Sherlock should have woken up earlier.

Morning in the underground is less pleasant than most. There's more rustling than usual. More hushed whispers and murmurs between the people lined up against the walls. There's so much movement compared to other mornings. So much life, considering it's almost completely a drug den.

"No, I haven't seen him," someone on the other side of the rails says loudly enough to wake Sherlock from his deep, feverish sleep. He blinks awake, noticing four figures surveying the people around them. He fails to pick up what they're saying, so he waits until one finally walks over and speaks to him.

Hudson is asleep by his side, but she awakens to hear the man in front of them begin to talk.

"Holmes," his gruff voice scolds. It's the colour of dark chocolate. It's the sound of deep September, dark and rich and cold. "We've been looking for you."

He's wearing clean clothing. It's well-fitted, new and high-quality. Sherlock has seen those clothes before. To be even more precise, he's wearing them. Holmes knows exactly who these people are.

"Of course you've been," he sighs, unbuttoning his coat and preparing to leave with them. He can tell by this bloke's pale, rough face that he won't be letting him go.

"Swings!" the man calls to the others, and they immediately rush over until Sherlock is surrounded against the wall. He leans his head against it, looking casually up at the four. He only recognises one of them, so his guess is that their duties in the group are mostly out of the building.

"What do you expect me to do?" Holmes asks nonchalantly. "You're looking at me like something terribly dramatic is about to occur."

Hudson, now wide awake, shares a sideways glance with him, her eyes giving out a motherly warning. Don't you dare rebel.

Luckily for Holmes, he's good at listening to her.

"We expect you to come back with us," the first man says. "Immediately."

Obediently standing up, Sherlock brushes off his sleeves and ruffles his hair back to life. "Is staying a night away to visit your family so utterly unhallowed to you all that you assemble an entire search team whenever-"

"Follow us," the man interrupts shortly, not wanting to hear any witty remarks. His buff arms are enough to convince Holmes, who's just about the width of a toothpick and could be easily snapped in half if he dares fight back. So he follows them, giving Hudson a little wave as he goes.

He obeys her warning glance as long as he's in her sight.

But one thing's for certain: he's quicker than these men. He's more agile, and he's clever. So he doesn't have to follow them at all. He'd rather lead the way himself and, of course, hit some stops along the way. He's got errands to run; marks to check.

So once they're out in the open air, the thick dust and pollution scratching against his windpipe, Holmes adds one more event to his long list of stupid things he's done. As if he isn't already digging his own grave, he picks up another godforsaken spade.

He runs.

He doesn't even plan it. His feet just start moving. And it certainly isn't the cocaine; he hasn't had any since last night. He's in a full sprint now, so suddenly that he barely even has time to process it himself.

The men yell after him, beginning to chase behind but, being both unprepared and unskilled for this abrupt change of plans, are far off when he turns his first corner. Holmes stops briefly to catch his breath, knowing he's in for some major shit when they find him again. He needs a plan. He needs somewhere to go.

His lungs feel like thin paper, crunching as he heaves air through them. He feels as though they're about to rip. To break. Things can only endure so much damage.

Beginning to run again, Holmes diverts his thoughts back to John. John Watson, who used to be innocent and unscathed. Who used to be bright and glowing and only had one scar. Whose only bad memories involved his family. Whose only concern was staying alive.

But these days, John has been beaten too much. His paper lungs are about to break. His origami wings are about to burn.

There are many factors playing into this, but Sherlock immediately thinks of one event that began the domino effect. One thing that began to turn John to the side of the hurt. And he decides to take care of it here and now.

He knows exactly where he's going.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Mycroft."

The elder Holmes lifts his head to see him there. He's alarmed at the level of mange that's become of him. Sherlock's hair isn't styled anymore; just flipped over his forehead wherever it wants to fall. There's stubble on his jawline. There's obsidian in his eyes; ebony in his cool glare.

"I suspected you were alive," Mycroft remarks, casually turning his head away like a cat refusing a meal. When he turns back, though, Sherlock is a lot closer than he was before. He's intimidating. Smoking. Ready to light everything aflame.

His question is simple, his voice deep and malignantly sturdy. He makes his stance very clear.

"Why was it that you stole this flat?"

The standoffishness of Mycroft's inconvenienced expression is enough of an answer to Sherlock. They did it because it was self-serving. He and Lestrade and Hooper did it because they wanted too badly to survive.

But, even though he knows the answer, Sherlock finds himself repeating it, becoming more angry as he does.

"Why?" he spits rhetorically.

Mycroft keeps his composure as he takes a breath and gives him an unwise reply.

"Frankly, brother, Watson was absolutely useless."

There's a chilly silence between them, all the unfortunate atoms that are caught between their glares freezing and falling still. Sherlock can think of a million things he wants to say in reply to that, because John is useful to him. John, to Sherlock, is worth keeping regardless of risk. But this isn't a game of sentiment or juvenile comebacks, so he chooses the reply most important to the situation.

His voice is weaker than he wants it to be as it spills out of his mouth. It's slow and breakable; tobacco ash and dark, scented smoke falling sullenly out of a pipe.

"Do you have any idea," he swallows, the sentence quivering in exasperation, "how much you broke him?"

"Sherlock, he's a man of glass," Mycroft replies. "Easy to mould when melted; easy to break when dropped. If we hadn't pushed him out, he would have been broken another way."

Sherlock shakes his head. This isn't right. John is not a man of glass. He's so much more complex than glass; so much less translucent. He's harder to figure out but more precious and rare to find. John, in Sherlock's head, is made of ivory. Illegally desirable; unwantedly wanted.

But he's got no chance to say this. The front door to the flat has opened and Hooper has stepped out of it, Lestrade and another man at her side.

"What's all the ruckus out-"

She lays her alarmed eyes on Sherlock, not knowing what to say. She's still, like a deer in headlights. Which is fitting; Sherlock always thought she had the face of a doe.

"Holmes, you git," Lestrade chokes out. "You're a- You're..."

Mycroft sighs. "He's trying to say, 'You're alive'. He's got this virus, you see. From meat. Showed up about a month ago. Just give him a minute."

Sherlock's accusatory pupils laser their way through Mycroft's skin. "You eat people too."

Mycroft doesn't respond.

"You're a..." Lestrade continues to stutter, forgetting the word and deciding to use a different one. "You're here!"

Sherlock looks back at him, a soft, saddened smile climbing its way onto his lips. "Hello, Lestrade," he says. It's a shame he'll only last a few more months. Sherlock likes him. He's a good friend.

He directs his attention to the new man next to Hooper, feeling a knot rise in his throat. It's an angry knot, frayed and tight, unforgiving as it constricts around his throat like a snake.

"And what is it that you do around here?" Sherlock asks, walking slowly towards him.

"Oh, not much, if I'm honest," the man replies. "I mostly just tag along."

A sarcastic laugh escapes Sherlock's lips as fire ignites in the pit of his stomach. He feels the smoke starting to ease out of his ears.

"So you got rid of John Watson," he says, "who was a soldier, had a phone, knows first aid, and understands Morse, all because he was useless to you... and you replaced him with this even more useless scrap?" He points a sharp finger at the man's nose, glaring as he looks him up and down.

Something about him is strangely familiar.

"Actually, Holmes," Hooper says, "we threw him out because we thought he was who killed you."

"Oh, well aren't you a bunch of geniuses, then," Sherlock remarks absently, taking a step toward the man in front of him and narrowing his eyes. "You. What's your name?"

The man is quick to reply. "Sebastian Thomas Moran."

"Lovely," Sherlock says without meaning it. "And what was it that you did before coming here?"

Moran has a similar hairstyle to how Sherlock's used to be, he notices. A similar face shape. Perhaps that's why they were all partial to keeping him.

"Oh, I'm a retired Swing."

Sherlock stops, standing up straight and narrowing his eyes.

"So you worked with Jim."

Moran gives a cheeky tilt of the head. "Jim? I worked with a Moriarty, but we certainly weren't cosy enough together for me to call him Jim."

"Right..." Sherlock mutters, ignoring the comment and studying him a bit more. He's got dress shoes like the ones Sherlock used to wear. He's got a similar figure, too, and...

"Do you, by chance, own a trench coat?" Sherlock asks him, his brow furrowed as Moran gives a friendly smile and nods.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he says. "Long and dark grey. Used to wear it a lot on those little Swing missions."

"So John was right," Sherlock whispers. Everyone hears it. Nobody wants to ask.

The day by the pool, the day they survived the first time, the day Sherlock learned that his enemy was the one person he'd been grieving for years, John had been right.

He had said it was Sherlock who lured him there. He said he practically followed him in.

"Oh, Moriarty's good, isn't he?" Sherlock exclaims, a v-shaped smirk slapping itself onto his lips. "He's able to find lookalikes; body doubles. He's able to put them in just the right position on his little stage so they can con their way into being the person they resemble. Oh, that's brilliant. Explains a lot of confusion. Yes."

"Sorry, what?" Moran asks, his confused eyes meeting Holmes' at-ease ones.

"Oh, nothing. You just impersonated me once and led both me and John to our apparent doom, which actually happened to be a melodramatic bit of nothing," Holmes explains as quickly as his tongue can pull it off. "No big deal. Now we know how that worked."

Moran nods. "You know, I vaguely remember that, I think," he recalls. "I used to have to impersonate you for him. He said it was just for telly. He said it wouldn't hurt." He takes a breath. "He said that a lot."

Being reminded of Moriarty gives Sherlock the sudden realisation that the Swings are still on his trail and could show up at any given moment. And this is shocking. For a moment, he had been so caught up in doing things the way he used to, solving puzzles like the days when it rained, that he had forgotten things were wrong. He'd forgotten that things are coming to get him and punch holes in his paper wings with their cookie-cutter fists. He'd forgotten why he was here in the first place.

He'd forgotten about John.

And now that he remembers, his shoulders don't stand up as straight. His smile shrinks. His expression falls.

He needs to figure out how to get out of this.

Stepping close to Moran and leaning into his ear, he whispers quietly enough where he's sure no recording devices can pick it up.

"How were you able to get out?" he asks. "From the Swings?"

Hooper, overhearing, furrows her brow and interjects. "Swings? Are you a Swing now?" She scoffs. "This is what you've become?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He doesn't bother giving her any of his legitimately precious time. His eyes keep themselves fixed on Moran, who signs and leans back to Sherlock's ear in response.

"I never got away," he admits. "I'm a fugitive. I'm still hiding to this day."

Sherlock bites his lip, finding it to be unpleasantly dehydrated, the dry, cracked surface of the skin resembling the ground around them all. He hates that he matches the environment. He hates that he's become what he's surrounded by.

Can't get away, he thinks, the thought repeating on a loop in his head, rewinding and starting over like a cassette tape. Hiding to this day.

Shit.

"And they never... fire anyone? Demote them? Banish them?" Sherlock asks, and Tom vigorously shakes his head.

"Don't even think about that route," he says, no longer whispering. "They eat everyone they don't want."

Sherlock had known that would be the answer, but he was in denial until it hit his ears. It was expected, of course, but it wasn't at all what he wanted.

The last bit of hope in his stomach sinks like a pebble in a fishbowl, slow but steady, small yet significant. He sighs and nods, stepping back and slipping his hands into his pockets, accepting defeat. Waiting for it.

"Well, they're looking for me," he murmurs distantly, "so you'll want to go back inside if you don't want them to see you."

Moran nods and hurriedly heads to the front entrance. Turning back when he's in the doorway, he smiles.

"You seem like a good man, Holmes," he says kindly as he pulls the door shut behind him. "Sorry for kicking out your boyfriend."

The door clicks.

Sherlock doesn't waste his time correcting him. He won't hear it regardless.

"You'll all want to go inside, actually," Sherlock continues to the rest of them. "They'll be here soon, I'd imagine, and if they know someone lives here they'll..." He trails off, but his point is clear.

Mycroft is the first to step inside. He's silent, followed by an also-silent Hooper. Lestrade, though, is still standing where he was earlier. He looks like a lost puppy. He reminds Sherlock of a more breakable Kiwi.

He looks incredibly frail, like his muscles are decomposing before his body is. Skin and bones, really, which is shocking compared to his past build. He used to be muscular and broad, strong and square. But now he just looks scared.

"Lestrade," Holmes says, "you should go inside."

His fragile friend only smiles in reply, reaching his arms out for a hug.

Oh, for the sake of Christ...

Sherlock is quick to provide it, careful as he embraces Lestrade, afraid he'll break his bones with one wrong move. He'd forgotten what it's like to really hug someone. To hug for the sake of hugging. To hug without grief or trauma or tears. And it feels nice. It makes him feel loved and important and special.

Lestrade holds him for what feels like forever until he finally says a complete, well-thought-out sentence.

"I'm very happy you're okay."

Holmes pulls away, forcing a smile and guiding him through the door. "I'm glad you're okay, too."

He practically has to shove him inside before he can leave, pushing his decaying frame to keep him from coming back outside. Yanking the doorknob, he gives Lestrade a tight smile and hopes he doesn't recognise that it isn't real.

Once the door is shut, Sherlock finds himself experiencing something he hasn't come in contact with for a long time. With the quiet street, crumbling brick walls and boarded windows around him, Holmes notices one big thing that he didn't know how much he's been missing.

Silence.

It's soft, but it's so noticeable. It reverberates off all the buildings more strongly than any noise could. It makes him forget how goddamn hot it is outside and how he might be beaten to death and served as a meal once he gets back.

It makes him, for another brief, blissful moment, forget about John.

Remembering John is so stressful for him. Loving people is such a burden.

Whenever John is hurt or scared, whenever he's sad or angry, whenever he's resentful and seeking revenge, it takes up space in Sherlock's cluttered brain. It reminds him that things aren't okay because John isn't okay. So he's glad he knows him. He's glad he loves him. But he wishes he'd forget it all.

Taking a deep breath, Holmes clears his mind.

He breathes out the memory of noise. He breathes in the lack of it.

He will never feel a moment this peaceful for the rest of his life. He knows it. So he treats it like the only thing he's ever known. He tucks the feeling of it away in his head next to the scattered Morse files and the folder on all the different types of tobacco ash. The papers are falling out of their labelled manila folders even though he hasn't even touched them.

That's one identifying factor of his own stress: his memories all messy when he hasn't even fucked them up himself.

But that's fine, he decides. It's fine to feel stressed. It's temporary.

Everything's temporary.

His feet feeling more firmly rooted to the ground than they have in years, Holmes looks straight up at the sky. And he's fine.

Usually, he finds discomfort in looking straight up at it. It makes him feel like he's going to fall into the vastness of it. It makes his stomach flip and his centre of gravity cease to exist. It makes him feel uncomfortably weightless.

But right now, watching the nothingness above him is like listening to the nothingness around him.

It's never been better.

And this is the point, predictably, finally, where it starts to get worse.

The silence turns into the aggressive patter of eight feet running up behind him. The weightlessness turns into hands gripping his shoulders and shoving him in the direction of his terrible new home. The lack of words turns into threats and modified bouts of cursing. "Port you, you useless scrap," is one he hears a few times.

But it's fine. It's all fine.

For some reason, the noise is still peaceful anyway.

Like everything, it's temporary.

Sherlock takes a breath, barely having to try in order to convince himself of one word.

Fine.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Rosie is bundled up in a blanket between Watson's arms as he walks.

He hurries down streets he used to know, getting lost every now and then. There's a point where he finds himself at the cross between New Cavendish and Harley Street. He nods at it in greeting. He's been here before.

The last time he noticed he was at this intersection, things were so much simpler. Complications hadn't set in. He was scared of the wrong things.

He was scared of the rare dust storm. He was scared of dying due to starvation and thirst. He was scared of not being able to make it to Avenue Gardens before sunset.

He was afraid of Sherlock Holmes.

The times have changed; as has he. This is what he's become: changed. He's a completely metamorphosed person. Stronger and smarter and better at surviving. Good at making deals and keeping people alive. Good at loving and caring; good at forgiving.

Good at knowing what to fear.

Right now, he knows what to be afraid of. It's clear. As he hugs Rosie to his chest, praying she won't start crying, he heads to the one place he knows always has what he needs.

In all bluntness, he's afraid that Rosie is going to die.

In fact, he's never feared something more. She has no mother to feed her. There's no qualified female at his clinic that could do it, either; they're all sick.

He's never lost a patient to childbirth before. They have no formula. They don't know where to find it. Even though he's the medic around here, this is a situation where he has absolutely no idea what to do.

He turns in the direction of Adler's place. And, like he remembers doing once a long time ago, Watson starts to run.

Running is different now. He used to be weak and slow. Now he feels like he could run forever. His breathing is even and meditated as he sprints down the street, whipping past broken cars and rusted signs and-

"Hey!"

Watson's feet stop in place, skidding to a halt.

"You there!" a voice calls behind him. "Turn around."

John has learned many things over the years. Things about survival, things about life, things about stamina and stealth and death. But only one thing helps him right now, and it's something he hasn't learnt in the past few years. It's a rule engrained into his brain by his own parents, beaten in and branded onto the front of his memory until it was the only thing he knew.

He knows it's best to do what you're told. And he's absolutely right.

Turning around, John grips Rosie tighter to him as he sees a policeman approaching. His breath hitching in his throat, he prepares for whatever may come.

"Please don't take her away," he says, although he barely notices the plead leave his lips. "I can't lose another person. Not yet."

The officer dismisses the whining and motions to Rosie, stopping a few steps away. "What've you got in your arms there?"

John is hesitant, frozen as he protectively turns Rosie partially away from him.

"My baby."

The officer nods incredulously before taking a long breath in. They stare one another down, John with an air of wariness and the officer with a sense of suspicion. Watson, in the back of his mind, prepares himself to run again.

"Where are you going?" the policeman interrogates slowly. "And why so fast?"

"I need food for her," John explains. "It's urgent. Please just let me go."

There's a bout of silence. The officer ends it.

"I'm not quite sure about it being a baby in there," he replies darkly, taking a half-step forward. His greedy fingers dance their way toward the blanket around Rosie's body. "Let me see."

John doesn't make an effort to follow this order. He stays there, his arms instinctively tightening around his child as he waits for this to end.

"Let me see," the officer repeats a bit louder, his hands reaching through John's grip. "Just give me-"

It happens so quickly that John doesn't even remember all that occurred once it's over. All he knows now is that Rosie is in his full possession again and the officer is bleeding on the ground. He coughs, a spurt of blood splashing out from over his tongue.

His nose is broken, John assesses, and the blood is running down into his throat. That's why he's coughing up blood. It has to be why.

Nevertheless, Watson just injured an officer. And, even without laws or a government, he knows he's in some deep shit. His breath hitching in his throat, he tries to fix the situation as well as he can.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I swear she's my baby."

And he turns, jumps forward, and keeps running. He has his own child to save. He can't waste his time with any more of whatever just happened.

I'm in trouble now, he scolds himself as he dashes down the streets. I'm an idiot and I'm in trouble and they're gonna come for me.

But, at least during the trip to see Adler, they never do.

Watson finds himself on the front step, knocking repeatedly and trying to cool off. Even though he's in shape, it doesn't stop the sun from becoming extra hot when he runs.

He's relieved when the door opens and a cold waft of air flows out. Adler peeks her eye out.

"Who is it?"

"Watson," he replies. "And I need your help."

A few moments pass. The door finally opens.

Adler's voice is low and almost shameful as she invites him in, her body positioned behind the door as he takes a step forward.

"Come in."

Watson sits down on the floor with a long sigh, setting Rosie in his lap and realising suddenly just how tired his arms are. Adler closes the door.

It comes as a surprise to Watson how she looks. Though she had been thin before, she's even thinner now, and the way she walks makes her look like prey. The locust suddenly looks fragile. The mantis finally gives in to being small.

"I'd bet you weren't expecting me to look like such a corpse," she says, walking over and sitting across from him on the floor. Watson nods, and she shrugs.

"Truth be told, they always tell stories about zombie apocalypses. We've had the apocalypse for some time. All we were missing were the half-dead people. And now we've got them. They're everywhere."

Watson isn't following. He narrows his eyes as if this could help him see what's beyond the words.

"Kuru," Adler explains solemnly. "Makes you rot away. It's a natural consequence, really. Starve a population and the dumbest ones'll get it. Natural selection." She sighs, leaning back against the front counter. "I was clueless enough to get it going inside my own body. I was only told about it by the Swings after I'd contracted it."

Watson's mouth hangs open in shock. "I... God, I'm sorry."

But Adler doesn't hear it. For a moment, she's blank, her eyes glossing over and staring randomly at the wall.

And then she start laughing.

It's sudden and explosive, echoing off all the surfaces in the room and making John jump in his seat. She laughs so hard he can hear it start to damage her voice, scratching her throat raw.

It's high-pitched and maniacal, sounding like the screech of a monkey or any other angry breed of primate. She rocks back and forth while she does it, and Watson wonders if he's safe. He isn't sure exactly what the hell this is.

However, just when he considers leaving, the laughing stops.

Adler sits up like nothing ever happened, looking at him cradling Rosie tightly to his chest.

"What the fuck?" Watson asks breathily, his chest inflating quickly and rapidly, his body poised to take another running trip. Adler sighs.

"I laugh sometimes. I can't help it," she says before changing the subject. "What've you got in your arms there?"

Watson, looks down at his child. Suddenly reminded of why he's here, he turns Rosie so she's facing Adler, feeling cautiously proud as he shows her off but ready to pull her away any second.

"This is Rosie," he says. "She's my daughter."

Adler gasps softly at the sight of her, leaning over and looking into her eyes.

"She's beautiful," she compliments. "Congratulations."

Watson smiles and nods as Adler coos at the little bundle. He finds the situation beautiful, too. Because here they are, not having a strong bond, their relationship strained, and one starting to decompose, both finding the time to love a baby. He's never felt the emotion attached to this like he feels it now. But it feels good. He likes it. He's glad it's there.

"I'm guessing she's why you're here," Adler prompts. John nods and clears his throat, holding Rosie back in his arms again.

"Yeah," he says. "I don't know what the hell to feed her."

Adler shrugs. "I'd personally leave that job to her mother."

Watson's eye twitches, a pang hitting his stomach. He'd promised himself earlier he wouldn't think about her when he went out in public. He hadn't wanted to be a mess in front of everyone watching. Yet here he is.

Adler's eyes drop in comprehension once she sees his expression. "Oh," she sighs. "I see."

"Moran... passed during childbirth," Watson explains. "I couldn't help her quickly enough."

Adler's face sags, her eyes pained but her words disregarding the pain of her own.

"I'm sorry."

John nods. He tries to hide the fact that his throat is too tight to respond. He speaks in a whisper when the words finally come.

"It's alright," he chokes. "I'm alright. Thank you."

Nodding sombrely, Adler stands and moves to the other room, looking up at all the shelves. She does this so aimlessly, looking almost completely lost in her own home.

"I'll give you some milk powder," she promises. "It's just... hard for me to remember where it is."

Rosie finally wakes up, looking contently around at the room. Watson finds himself suddenly enamoured with her eyes. They're so round and innocent, and they're quite likely the brightest blue he's ever seen. Or, at least, some of the brightest blue eyes he's seen. However, just because she's his daughter and he's biased to rank her above everything else, he decides firmly that it's hers that are the brightest. His mind is unchangeable. There's no reason even trying to tamper with it.

Rosie's face is perfectly round, her skin soft and her features tiny and fragile. She looks about the room, her barely-visibly eyebrows raised as far as they can possibly go, her hands flailing and curling as she figures things out. She's so precious. So irreplaceable.

And she needs to eat.

"Oh, milk powder," Watson reminds himself. "Isn't it on the shelf on the top right?"

Adler sees it and points, taking it down like forgetting where it sits is a completely normal thing to do. "Ah," she chuckles. "There we are."

She walks back into the room, a few small bags of it in her hands. "It won't hold her over for too long; it's barely got any nutritional value or anything. But it'll do for now."

She drops the bags by Watson's knees. He picks them up, stuffing them in his knapsack - which he's kept all this time, by the way - and slides it over his shoulders.

"Thank you," he breathes, standing up and re-swaddling Rosie into her blanket. "I really mean it, Adler. We wouldn't have survived without you. None of us."

Adler smiles slightly, crossing her arms and looking at the floor. "Isn't it ironic that I'm so talented at keeping you all alive but am simultaneously the reason I'm going to die?"

John sighs. "I'm terribly sorry about that, too."

"Don't be," she replies dismissively, walking over to open the front door. "You've got much bigger things to worry about. Like finding good food for your little bundle. Although..." She pauses, letting the door swing wide and pursing her lips. "I get the feeling that things will start to pan out for you."

Watson smiles, opening his mouth to speak. "I hope you're-"

He's cut off by a pained yell.

It startles them both, and they look up and down the street to see where it's coming from. It's a bit too dark to see, though, so they can't see the source until it's just across the street and practically right in front of them.

John knows that call. The roughness of the voice as it's hurt, the pitch and tone. The softness dulling the edge of it like epoxy over the blade of a knife. He knows it all too well.

"Move along, scrap!" the large crowd orders. John can't really tell how many people there are, but he can tell they're causing the screams. One's got a bat. Another's pointing the handle of an axe near the centre of the circle.

There's another agonised wail. Watson looks at his feet as he hears it. He knows who's in the circle. But he won't accept it.

Adler leans out of the doorway, poking her head out further.

"Hey, Swings?"

They all stop, turning around to face them both. One shoves the victim to the ground in front of them. He sputters as his cheek hits the ground.

It's Sherlock. Of course it's Sherlock.

He's all banged up, bleeding from almost every area imaginable. He's got a black eye and a slice across the bridge of his nose, and John almost steps toward him.

It he remembers then that he has a baby in his arms. A fragile, innocent baby. And he can't put her life at risk.

As the Swings look up at Adler, Sherlock looks up at John. It's almost like he's known he was here the entire time.

What's even stranger is his eyes.

When he had seen him earlier, Sherlock's eyes had been dead and squashed, dry-frozen and kept cool. But now it seems they've evaporated.

They're so goddamn bright. It's actually a bit unnerving. There, in their beauty, are the two second-brightest blue eyes Watson has ever seen.

In them lies life and energy and a heartbeat so strong John can feel it in the soles of his feet. Holmes seems, for once, fine.

Adler speaks slowly, a bit slurred by current default. Her fingers tap against the doorframe, her power over everyone immense and dampening and silent.

"When's my next shipment of meat?" she asks. Her breath appears in a thin cloud, mixing in with the drastically cooling temperature.

"As soon as possible, Miss Adler," a man in front replies. "We've got a few new bodies recently that'll be distributed within the next few days, I'd think."

"Very well, then," Adler replies. "You all have a good night."

The men nod at her. One kicks Sherlock with his boot.

"Up, you weasel."

Holmes shakily stands, his body vacillating as he does so. John watches him, physically pained by what he sees.

But Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. As they shove him down the street, he's able to turn around and give John one more look.

And, to make matters more suspicious, he smiles.

John isn't quite sure how genuine it is, but he can't help but smile back.

The funny thing about smiling is that it can be hard to know what's behind it. Although a smile is often associated with the feeling of happiness, there can always be some doubt behind it. There could be sarcasm or cynicism; anger or brokenness. There could even be mania. All the possibilities haunt the lips and seep through the front teeth, almost invisible if you don't notice them.

What Watson is afraid of is the emotion behind the smile. When you haven't seen someone in a long enough amount of time, you forget what their smile looks like. So when you see it again, you've got nothing to compare it to. John has no idea if it was real, and he can't seem to figure it out at all.

On the other hand, when you haven't seen someone you love for a long time, a smile doesn't need to be faked when you see them again. It comes naturally, slipping over all troubles you may have. Because love is more powerful than bruises and beatings. John just hasn't thought of that part yet. In fact, the thought may never arrive.

Adler pats his shoulder and knocks him out of his thoughts, her hand both consoling and equally pushy.

"You should get home, Watson," she advises. "The darker it gets, the colder things become."

John nods, gripping the milk powder in one hand and Rosie in the other.

"Thank you."

Adler merely nods as he leaves, closing the door until it's open just a crack.

"Go save the world, Watson," she commands, and the insanity behind it is so powerful John almost listens to it.

But he puts it on the back burner for now. He's got a baby to save before he fixes everything else. However, he finds himself replying anyway. He makes another one of his block castle promises and is almost sure it won't topple over right as it's touched again.

Clutching Rosie to his heart, John's breath steams in front of his own eyes as he speaks.

"Alright," he replies to the maniacal locust before him. "I will."

Adler closes her door.

For a lack of a closer place to go, Watson heads back the way he came, approaching New Cavendish and Harley, walking back to the beginning of everything. His nose turns red in the cold, and sleep tugs at his ankles. He's an hour away from home if he walks.

It takes him fifteen minutes to find a bicycle.

Zipping Rosie up in his coat and laying her head on his chest, Watson throws the powdered milk in the basket in front of him and begins to pedal as fast as he's possibly able to. And perhaps it's only his drowsiness getting to him, but he thinks he feels his wings start to grow back.

He doesn't feel so dark. He starts to feel warmer; more ignited.

Watson feels fine.

He sighs, letting one of those mysteriously complicated smiles cross his face.

Fine.


	22. The Plan to Migrate the Moths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson spend some time together and talk a few things over.

"There's someone here to see you."

Hearing a voice directed at John feels so alien to him. Like it doesn't belong. He hasn't even been acknowledged since Moran passed on, probably because people want him to have space. At first he hated the space. But now he isn't sure how to respond without it.

Turning to identify the person speaking, Watson sees one of his assistants peeking her head through the door. Rosie is cradled in his left arm, still bundled up from the night before. He must have fallen asleep right as they got back.

"Does my visitor happen to have a black eye?" Watson asks groggily in return.

"He sure does," the assistant replies. "Expecting him?"

Watson doesn't answer. "Tell him I'll be down at the table by the door in ten minutes. And fetch him an extra chair."

He hears the door close and his assistant walk off, leaving him alone with Rosie in the room again. And he almost, almost falls back asleep.

His own stupid smile keeps him awake.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Seeing Sherlock Holmes - really seeing him - for the first time in multiple months tosses a wide range of emotions through John's stomach, making him internally writhe in agonised confusion. For one, he feels sad that he pushed him away once he confessed his existence. He's sad that he missed a year and a half of his life and will never be able to get that time back. But, on the other hand, he doesn't know if he's ever been happier to see him.

Holmes seems a lot different now. The way he carries himself is more evolved than it used to be, his fuzzy moth wings now scarred and experienced. He feels older to John than he looks. More mature and adult. Like he knows things that he never gave a thought to before.

Perhaps it's the traumatised, coal-glazed glint behind his eye, or perhaps the way he blinks every time he moves his nose and the scab running across it is tampered with. Perhaps it's how his gaze is avoidant and sombre, or how his lips curve neither upward nor downward but rather stay expressionless, contrasting with the blatancy of his other features.

Or maybe it's the way he doesn't say a single thing as John approaches him from the staircase. He's cautious, guarded, quiet.

"Hello," John greets him quietly, cradling Rosie in his right arm and pretending he isn't so overjoyed to be in the very presence of this person.

"How are you?" Holmes asks softly, his eyes latching onto Rosie's sleeping face and keeping them there. They're so avoidant of John. So avoidant they're almost completely negligent.

John takes a breath, assessing. "I'm okay," he replies honestly. "The first day was the hardest."

Holmes nods with a head tilt, raising his eyebrows and biting the inside of his cheek. "It always is."

John pushes his boiling emotions back down his throat. That's how he's been dealing with losing Mary lately. Just push it down like overflowing paper in a rubbish bin. Of course there'll be a point where he won't be able to push it down anymore because it's too full, but he'll deal with that when it happens.

He focuses on Sherlock's black eye. It's more of a blueish colour now, looking simultaneously more and less painful than it did originally. The scab on his nose is red and a bit inflamed, and bruises run up and down his exposed arms.

"How's your, uh..." John motions awkwardly to Sherlock with his free hand. "How are your..."

"Misfortunes?" Holmes offers with an air of halfhearted playfulness, looking over all the scratches and bruises as John does. "They're fine. They don't hurt unless you touch them, like most things in this cursed life we live." He ends the sentence with an overdramatic smile that John finds a bit unsettling.

Seeing John's confused, concerned expression, his face melts into his usual deadpan as he paraphrases himself. "They're fine," he says. "By the way, there's a box of some sort of can outside the door. Roughly twenty-four of them, I'd think. Saw the package when I came in. Might want to give them a look-over."

"Yeah, I'll do that," John replies, taking a candle and lighting it as he sets it on the table next to them. "Have a seat."

Holmes pulls the extra chair out and sits, the flame illuminating his busted skin as he stares fearlessly into it. John sits on the other chair across from him, hugging Rosie close.

"As I stated when I first came back," Holmes says with an unexpected air of professionalism, "I have some things to address and inform you of. It's why I'm here, actually."

John nods. "Alright."

Holmes purses his lips, his pointer finger tapping against the table. "And we're going to start with how I died."

John doesn't say anything in response. He just waits, watching Sherlock take a shaky breath and closing his eyes before tumbling down into his terrible, terrible past, the only thing comforting him from it being the soft candlelight on the table.

He speaks.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Dying was a strange feeling.

It felt like a mixture of falling and drifting, tumbling and fading in and out of consciousness until he eventually stopped fading in.

There's no sense of time when you're dead. It's just nothingness, and you aren't sure if the nothing has lasted for three seconds or three generations. In fact, you have no thought. No sight. No awareness.

So when he awoke on a cot with tubes running through his arms, Holmes had no idea what - or when - was going on.

As he blinked awake, he wondered if he was still himself. Still Sherlock. This was a strange place with a strange ceiling. It wasn't a hospital and it sure as hell wasn't London. For a few stunned seconds, he wondered if his entire religious standpoint had been proven wrong and he had entered another body.

But he then felt a thick bandage on his stomach and dried blood still all over his hand, and he knew that he was just being stupid.

Searching around for a button of any sort to alert whoever the hell fixed him up, his eyes rested on a bedside table which held a glass of water and a note.

The paper was soft as he took it in his hand, all fuzzy and warm. It reminded him of wine.

Issued to Mr. W. Sherlock Holmes  
A notice from the New English Government

C2309,  
We would like to inform you of your whereabouts. As you likely recall, you passed away around 20:43 yesterday evening. As the public is fond of you, we could not let you die.  
London has been televised publicly since the drought began. Seems you've gained quite the following.  
You have received blood donations from multiple different sources and should be back to normal* within the time it takes for us to train you in. As we've kept you alive, you owe us something in compensation if you'd like to return to London again (and we know you do).  
Your duty from here on out will be to relay information to us by either paying bi-monthly visits to our nearest headquarters or by wearing a small clip-on camera to your collar for at least three hours every day. The camera connects to our monitors through our private internet services, so you do not need to turn it in unless it needs to be charged (this is not often). You mustn't go around telling people you're working with the government.  
As for your companion, John H. Watson (aired citizen G4072), he is currently alive and well, and there's no reason to worry about him or his wellbeing.  
When you are ready, we have a constantly-present medical staff that are willing to assist you if you press the red button on the wall to your right. Once you are well enough, you will be attending an intensive weeklong training to qualify you for this position.  
Cordially,  
The Legal Department  
England, UK

*"Normal" meaning your usual. We do not have the time to help you with your malnourishment.

The note slapped against the bedsheets as he threw it down.

They were going to turn him into a fucking sniffer dog.

Sherlock tossed the note like a frisbee back onto the sidetable, sighing and rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

I'm bloody alive, for fuck's sake, he reminded himself. My legal obligations shouldn't even matter to me at this point.

But they did. And he hated it.

His morals were too strongly rooted into his muscle memory now. He couldn't tear them out without leaving a few roots tangled inside. They'd just grow back again.

He couldn't just lie.

He couldn't go around telling everyone that he wasn't associated with the government. He couldn't hide it from the people he loved. He couldn't do that to him. Them. Whatever.

He. Couldn't. Just. Lie.

Focus on something else, he ordered himself. Anything else.

"John H. Watson is currently alive and well, and there's no reason to worry about him or his wellbeing."

"Well, fuck that," Sherlock whispered to himself. "There's no way..."

He stopped in the middle of his sentence, his hands dropping from his face and onto the mattress he laid on. His eyes froze on the ceiling, his lips parting as he took in a slow breath, realising, remembering what he had nearly forgotten.

John.

He must have felt terrible.

John was distressed; he knew it. A big, angry, sobbing mess. He'd watched him-

Oh, God.

He watched him die.

He let his blood seep into his tight blue jeans. He comforted him as he faded out into nothingness.

But it was probably John who needed the comfort more. Right then, it must have been him needing a tight embrace and a promise that everything would be alright. And Sherlock couldn't give it to him. Because, in John's reality, Sherlock Holmes was dead.

He doesn't tell John about this now, but, in that moment, alone in a foreign room with the guilt of it all, Sherlock began to cry.

It wasn't like any crying he'd ever experienced before. It was past the point of desperation. It was past the point of sorrow. It was a heart-ripping, stomach-clawing form of absolute grief. It dug deep into his abdomen and sucked the air out of his lungs, and he could do nothing about it. For minutes on end, he just laid there and sobbed.

The tears were silent. The only audible noise was the rustling of his thin bedsheets as he lifted his hands to cover his own mouth.

John.

He hurt John and he betrayed John and he made John lose another friend and he missed John and he wished he could be there for him. But he couldn't because he was the one reason John was hurting in the first place.

He wanted any sign that Watson was okay. Any implication that there really wasn't anything to fret over.

Any clue that the 'New English Government' was telling him the truth.

His reddened eyes caught sight of a television set hung on the wall in the corner.

Duh, he thought to himself. Obviously.

Looking around for a few moments, he was able to find the remote, just barely reaching it with his closest hand. Fumbling weakly with the object, he located the power button and turned on the screen. He hadn't used one of those in a while. It was strange, adding to the surrealism of it all. Everything came together, flipping, moving, and his life was Picasso.

He looked up at the screen, focusing finally on what was playing.

He didn't see what he expected.

"-from recent events have shown that C2309, a beloved Englishman from the monitored city of London, was fatally stabbed just last evening, revealing his real name, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to both us and his adored companion..."

The alienness of all this twisted in with Sherlock's inner turmoil until he wasn't sure how to tell them apart. He was seeing a news report on his own death. He was learning that he was beloved by people worldwide. He was almost convinced again that he was really dead.

Too bothered by the subject to choose to be bothered by it, he switched the channel.

"-C2309 last night, resulting in a heartbreaking, intimate death-"

He clicked the button again.

"People internationally are mourning the loss of their favourite digital icon-"

"-although officials state that they've done the best they can to keep him alive, we are unsure about the possibility of seeing more of him in the future-"

"-genius against genius can be dangerous, as shown by yesterday's tragic live display on EBC One-"

EBC One.

Clicking frantically until he found it, Sherlock noticed he was sweating profusely. The anxiety was getting to him. The shock was seeping through. He needed to calm down and breathe and-

And there it was.

It was simple; just a shot of a random street. But every now and then, the view would switch angles or settings, focusing on whatever was there. Every once in a while there'd be a place he recognised. Every so often he'd feel like he was back home.

So he watched it for hours, waiting for John.

He never saw him.

And that was predictable. Likely, actually. John rarely left the flat, he knew, unless it was with him. And he wasn't there.

But it was disappointing. It made him feel out-of-place once again.

Along with this, no sign of John didn't confirm that he was okay. And the lack of confirmation just made Sherlock feel worse.

When night came, he stared at the telly until he fell asleep. He never stopped waiting.

He told himself that John was somewhere cosy and warm with Hudson, laughing and sharing drinks with blankets in the living room. He promised that they were happy and smug and warm and that even Kiwi was enjoying the night with them.

But the promises were thinner than his own wings.

He knew they were barely even there.

He doesn't tell John this, either, but he cried himself to sleep. He outwardly shook with pain and agony until his eyes closed and he continued in his head.

He still waited for John Watson. He promised himself he always would. And this promise, he knew, was steel.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

He was up and walking in a matter of weeks.

The process of everything was so sudden and efficient that it was hard to keep track of it as it happened. He toured the main headquarters and attended classes, even meeting a few people that didn't piss him off all the time. It was a whole different world, even though he was under an hour away from where he came from.

The surrealism slowly became reality. After a while, the fake didn't feel so fake anymore. He almost forgot how the outside world really was.

That, of course, was until one quiet day in the darkened lobby.

He stood against the wall, a cup of coffee in his hand, staring down at his feet as everyone around him bantered about strangely normal things. He pretended he found it funny. Not like he didn't like them; he just found their humour predictable and sickeningly straight.

"-and so I said, 'I don't give a damn about the size of your arse as long as you get it over here tonight!'"

Hilarious. The pinnacle of comedy. The highest point of comedic history.

There were two other people in the room that hadn't made jokes about sex. One was a woman, and the other was probably gay. He kept tabs on the two in his head, as there wasn't anything else around for him to track.

"D'you hear that, Holmes?"

Sherlock looked up. "Hmm?"

"Look up on telly," the man in front of him said. "It's your lucky day."

This was a celebrated phrase. Whenever it was said, there was a family member of someone up there, and the viewer got to soak it all in for the few seconds they were televised. It only occurred once every few weeks. And here it was now.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to the screen, his heart skipping a beat. The blue light from the screen illuminated his face in the darkness as he focused on the image ahead.

There he was.

It was John Watson. He walked down the street, his knapsack on his back, absolutely nothing on his expression. It seemed... casual. So trivial and normal of a moment.

But it meant so much more to Sherlock.

He hadn't earlier understood why the people around him would get so unbreakably glued to the screen when they saw anyone they knew. But then he found out exactly why.

His feet took him toward the television, his lips parted in a silent call out. I wish you could see me back.

His eyes scanned the grainy, fuzzy pixels of the staticky old screen, travelling across it as they followed Watson down the street. He could hear the high buzzing and popping of the machine as he inched closer and closer to it. He was able to smell the fuzz. And part of him hoped he could have smelled Watson, too.

Then it would be real. Just to smell him. To breathe him in. To feel him out. Then he'd know he was back home.

And that's how he remembered he wasn't.

The camera cut away, the street changing to one he hadn't visited before.

"Hey, cocklover, get back here," one of them chortled, and Sherlock turned blankly back.

"Fine, you completely-deserving celibate scum," he replied. "What do you want me to do? Force myself to laugh at your jokes? Give your ego some action? It'd be the only action you've gotten in years, though; I wouldn't want to make the moment so sad."

There was a stunned silence. Holmes turned casually back toward the screen.

And there was John again, getting more focus likely because everyone knew who he was. Holmes had the hunch that he'd be on the screen for a while now.

"Hand me my coffee," he requested flatly to the crowd still staring at him. He could see one of the onlookers stifling a laugh. "It seems I've left it over on the juvenile table."

The woman he'd been monitoring immediately stood up and handed it to him. "I'm pretty sure you won that one, Holmes," she remarked, and he took a sip as others began to pipe in.

"You just got pulverised by a fucking fairy," someone in the back called. Holmes felt a smirk hit his lips. He'd never minded the slur less.

"We do seem to have those powerful abilities, don't we?" he asked. There was another bout of laughter from them all.

He heard conversation pipe up again, but didn't listen. His eyes were too busy with all the tiny squares on the screen replicating an image of John Watson. His lips were too occupied with the coffee to talk back.

And then he remembered the date.

And, furthermore, he realised the reason John likely left the flat.

Food. He must have been low on food.

And, as John was one of the most predictable people on the face of the Earth, there was no way he was going to succeed at getting it from Adler, let alone trying at all. He was so brilliantly dumb that way. Because he couldn't steal like Sherlock was able to. He couldn't get away with it.

Therefore, there was a price to pay. There was compensation to give Adler.

And Sherlock felt it was best if he delivered it himself.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The tiny camera was easy to get used to as it weighted down his shirt collar. Although it was somewhat heavy, the feeling was the slightest bit more snug and comforting than life was without it.

It took Holmes two hours to walk to Adler's place. Not because it was far; it wasn't actually too bad, but because he kept getting lost.

This part of town was one he was unfamiliar with.

It was one of those streets he would see on telly. Barren, jumbled, completely torn apart. Walking down it would make one feel like Clint Eastwood himself.

Holmes wore a handkerchief around his nose and mouth, his hair slicked back as best it could be with water and a sharp comb. He couldn't let anybody know it was him yet. Anybody except for Adler, who probably knew already anyway.

At the main headquarters, there was a list in a frame of all the people, dead or alive, that were Sniffers. He couldn't help but spot her name at the very top as he passed by.

When he finally arrived, he knocked five quick times on her door.

"I'm here to continue paying for Watson's food," he practised saying before she opened it.

That night, he slept in a discarded cardboard box. When weather got bad, he'd go back to headquarters and sleep on the floor.

He would do this for months.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The candle is still burning once he's done talking. It's melted down to a short stub, the wax pooling over the saucer beneath it and hardening in small puddles on the table. Rosie is fast asleep, and the sun has finally set, leaving a tiny line of pink on the very edge of the sky. They both watch it, their eyes savouring the purity of the last inch of colour for as long as it's there.

Holmes has always liked that John is comfortable with silence. The best thing is finding someone you can be quiet with; someone so grounded and connected to you that you need no words to feel their emotions and hear the sentences they're contemplating. Someone you can watch the sky with. Someone who, by their side, you can pick up exactly where you left off, even after years of life-changing events apart.

John hasn't said a single thing in response to what Sherlock has told him; he's just sat there, soaking it all in, beginning to understand things he never knew he didn't. But he is listening. Even though it's hard to tell, Holmes just knows with him.

"Considering the world is going to hell," Sherlock finally speaks, his voice, though low and soft, booming in both their ears after that long bout of nothingness, "where would you like to travel in your lifetime?"

John shifts Rosie in his arms, his muscles growing consistently more tired the longer he holds her. "You ask this as if you expect me to have a fucking idea."

A small smirk glows on Holmes' half-lit face. He's missed remarks like this. In dreams, he's tried to replicate them, but it's never the same as the real John. "But I do."

"Well, I don't know," John replies. But, catching Sherlock's prompting look and silently agreeing to decide, he sighs. "Maybe Portugal."

"Wrong," Holmes corrects sharply, seeing a playful, still-half-serious glare of aggravation from John's end of the table in response. "You want to go East. We want to go East." Seeing Watson's arms tiring, he reaches out over the little table. "I'll take her," he suggests.

"Thank you," John replies, passing the precious cargo over the rotting wood and into the safe hands just beyond it. Holmes cuddles Rosie close to his chest, watching her face and almost forgetting about the issue at hand.

"I found Hudders," he finally adds. "We'll bring her with us."

John tenses up. "Bring her where?"

Sherlock clenches his jaw as he answers. His hands tighten around the blankets of life he's holding. He speaks simply, to the point yet so vague. It's his favourite kind of communication.

"Away."

John sets his jaw and glares out the window. He hadn't wanted to hear that.

The best kind of night is the one where the sky is so bright that even the lightest snow would look dark under it. It's the kind of night where you can see the opaque, stretched-out black clouds, so quietly still in their positions, sprawled out all thin with a promise that they aren't going anywhere. It's the kind of night where the light from outside can illuminate an entire room with soft, shy light and a white, comfortingly fuzzy glow, and, for the few moments that you're all wrapped up in it, everything is okay.

This is that kind of night.

Sherlock doesn't mind waiting for John to respond. He's content just watching the sky, hearing the soft breathing of a sleeping baby in his arms, feeling the moonlight trickle in through the thick smog of the atmosphere and settle temporarily on the ends of his lashes. It's the kind of sky that not even the most broken, angriest of soldiers would be able to ignore. Thus, he knows John's eyes are on it, too.

"Drought has spanned over multiple Northwestern-European countries," Sherlock explains, potentially to the sky itself. "It's come to the point where London barely has any resources left, and any rain that might come will cause a serious flood. The government is falling apart more and more every day. And that's why we have to go East. And that's why you are coming."

"When you say East...?" John prompts, irritated still but equally curious.

"A little bird told me Denmark would be lovely," Sherlock replies absently. "You know, where they have government and also rain."

They both know he got the idea from Theo's letters. There's a tense glance shared between them, neither bothering to mention that part aloud.

"And what, then?" John asks, his voice rising and then hushing itself. "You expect me to just... jump up and go with you?"

"John, may I throw something completely manipulative onto the table?" Holmes asks, and Watson's expressions harden.

"I don't think saying no would stop you."

Sherlock smiles. He knows him too well.

"Do you want your daughter to live?"

The dynamic between them shows itself best at this very moment. Sherlock smirks, completely comfortable in this situation (more specifically, he's having an amount of fun that one could only describe as a fuck ton), while John glares at him, not knowing at all what to feel. He's somewhere weakly between furious and adoring, wanting to hold his ground but equally wanting to just give in. To laugh. To banter. To forget.

The unconventional, confusing alchemy between them is so deeply rooted into what they are, never changing, no matter what shit has gone down between them. It's a dynamic so vital to the bases of their beings that, even if the world wasn't made of dry dirt, even if they were sitting back in their flat on a rainy day in an entirely different and functional universe, things between them would still be the same. The authenticity of this is special, and they both know it.

"I hate you, you know," John exclaims, smacking his hand on the table in defeat. A small glint of fun finally reaches his eyes. "I really do."

Holmes gives a soft huff of laughter, watching the dusk turn darker and darker until it becomes the dark void he once was. "We steal a small cargo ship," he says abruptly, a smile still halfway etched on his lips. "I've got government codes to get into the buildings necessary. Found them on my headquarters tour. But we need to get there, so - first thing's first - we steal a car." His hand makes little motions in the air as he explains his thought process.

John shifts in his seat. "Okay."

"And we steal petrol," Holmes adds.

John nods. "Okay."

"And food."

They both narrow their eyes, completely in sync.

"...Okay."

And then an accusatory observation: "You seem unfazed by this."

Unsurprised, mostly. "I am."

Holmes' eyes flicker. "You don't want to come," he states. And it's true. "Why not?"

Silence follows. John feels so guilty under Sherlock's hurt stare. He can feel a heartbeat pulsating within it, echoing in the deepest chasms of his brain even when he looks away. He wishes he wouldn't hurt him like this. He wishes he were nicer.

But he can't lie to him.

Sucking in a slow breath, John realises there's no way to paraphrase what he feels without sounding like an absolute cock. So he goes with the bluntest option. He knows Holmes likes blunt.

"I don't want to be around you."

He feels his muscles tense in anticipation, waiting to be guilted out of this. Waiting for the blow of moral turmoil.

John has been torn about this for a while, but he knows it's still true. It's been true since he decided not to care about Sherlock anymore. Ever since three months after his death.

Holmes' voice is more of a whisper as he repeats himself.

"Why not?"

Silence.

John tries to think. He tries his very hardest. But nothing comes.

I don't know.

Where would one begin?

Is there a starting point at all? If John were to decide to explain himself chronologically, would he even be able to pinpoint where and when the first point resides?

The answer is no. No, he wouldn't.

So, instead, he cuts to the chase. The one big thing that's been bugging at him since he read all those letters.

"Hudson said... I mean, I realised..." John starts, getting abruptly nervous as he says all this aloud. Sherlock's eyes are calculating. For once, whatever he's feeling isn't so obvious in the pupils. "I thought about everything that we had... done, everything we'd been through and how close we were, and..." He takes a breath.

"Look, I'm not so carefree anymore. I'm... smarter now. Less naïve. I realise now what we had gotten into. And it's just..." His hands rub against each other, feeling clammy to the touch.

"It's just that... that you were in love with me."

His eyes fall to the floor. He stops fidgeting. He can't bear to even imagine the expression on Sherlock's face.

"Look," John continues, quietly now, "I'm going for the sake of Rosie, okay? If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be coming."

The shame he feels about that sentence eats him alive quicker than acid. And so he lets it. Because it's the truth. He finds comfort in Holmes. But he barely finds a friend in him. As far as his trauma and internal scar tissue are concerned, that part is still dead.

What leaves Holmes' lips in return is something so sane and ordinary that Watson almost has to double-check to make sure he actually said it. It's so smooth, so utterly grounded, so completely detached.

"Okay."

The reply is so simple. Yet, predictably enough, it's so cryptic.

But this particular word has more of a definition than usual. More acceptance to it. More indifference.

John whips his head back to Sherlock. The hurt that he had expected to see isn't there. The anger that he would have had if their roles were switched isn't even remotely present. His eyes look like business. His words handle it as such.

Watson stops being surprised by this as he suddenly remembers something.

"Actually, I should also leave because I made an officer bleed yesterday."

Holmes looks immediately surprised. And then he snorts.

"You?" he asks with a shocked chuckle. "John Watson?"

"I wasn't thinking," John replies, as if it would be a valid excuse. "He was grabbing at Rosie and then all of a sudden he was coughing up blood on the ground-"

He stops explaining when Holmes starts laughing uncontrollably, holding Rosie in one arm and muffling his voice with his other, his fist resting over his mouth as Watson clenches his teeth in shame.

"Oh my God," Sherlock exclaims through constant chuckles.

Watson crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, setting his jaw in irritation. It really isn't that funny. "We've got it cleared up, then?"

An amused nod.

"Then what's our first step?"

Holmes blinks and swallows, holding Rosie tighter to him as he leans back in his seat and tries to compose himself. The candle between them is so short that John is surprised it's still even there.

"We have to break into Buckingham Palace."

John leans forward. "What?"

"We're going to get our files," Sherlock says. "Clear our names and simultaneously have all our information with us in case we need to apply for citizenship elsewhere."

"And it's all at Buckingham," John clarifies. Holmes nods.

"Every last file."

"And that's all we do?" John asks. "Take our files and just bloody leave?"

"Oh, not even remotely that simple," Holmes replies. "It's merely what we have to do first."

"Fine, then," Watson replies. "When do we start?"

He feels something ignite in his chest. Something he hasn't felt in far too long.

Excitement.

He's going to do something dangerous. And it'll be by the side of the best possible person to do it with.

He won't admit how stoked for this he actually is.

"We start as soon as you find a way to end your little job as the New London City medic," Holmes says, handing Rosie back to him as he stands up. "And then we get the hell out of here."

Sherlock reaches for his coat, pulling it over his shoulders and looking at the floor.

"I'll be back within the next few days," he says, "if you need... comfort or something."

John furrows his brow. "Why would I - oh."

It shocks him that he almost couldn't remember. When he was talking to Sherlock, he had legitimately forgotten about Moran and his pain and guilt and how lonely and lost he felt.

As Sherlock heads to the door, John says something that almost surprises himself. Opening his mouth to speak, he blurts out the first thing that comes to his head.

"You can stay the night here," he offers. "It's cold."

Holmes smiles. "I'm mortal, Watson," he replies. "And the Swings are bloody possessive over where I sleep. If I'm to live the night, I can't."

He opens the door, a burst of cold air hitting them all as he does. Watson pulls Rosie closer.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock says, and Watson nods in return.

"Goodnight."

"Oh, and John," Sherlock adds, nodding to the doorstep. "You'll want to take a look at the package out here. I may have put a word in." He winks, and John feels a faint smile hitting his lips.

The door closes, and just as Holmes begins to walk away, the short, lonely candle on the decomposing table finally takes one last breath, shuts its eyes, and burns out.


	23. To Die; To Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes completes an evil-doing.

«If life must not be  
taken too seriously, then  
so neither must death.»

-Samuel Butler

-

What's outside John's door is a good month's worth of liquid baby formula and two nursing bottles.

It's just about frozen through when he brings it in the next morning, but he's able to pour some into a metal bowl, heating it up in his room over a few candles until it's room temperature again.

The relief and satisfaction he gets from watching Rosie drink it is absolutely liberating. He isn't scared of her starving to death. She has a chance. He has control. He almost wants to cry.

I may have put a word in, Holmes had said. Thank God for that. Thank God for him.

He holds the bottle up to feed the baby, even the room seeming to calm down as she finally gets some real nutrition. There's enough for a month. They'll be okay for thirty days.

Hopefully they'll be out of here by then.

Kiwi pads up next to John, sitting next to the mattress and watching Rosie with him. Time seems not to exist, slowing to a complete halt as they both stare down at the precious baby in Watson's arms. There's no brink of boredom, no dread about later tasks, no longing for preoccupation. In the room is only a man, his child and his dog, completely in the present moment, never wanting to leave.

They've got only until sundown to feel this way.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"I'm glad to see you spent the night here," Jim coos, waking Holmes up as he stands ominously in the doorway. "Although I'm unimpressed at your contributions otherwise to this little group of ours."

Holmes groans, dragging his head up off the pillow and turning it with all his energy to face him. "What in God's name do you mean?" he asks drowsily. "I brought back two bodies the other day."

"No, Holmes, you brought back one," Moriarty corrects him. "And the one you brought back had been left out in the sun all day. It was all rotten by the time we found it."

What neither of them are awake enough to put together is that there were, in fact, two bodies. But one was picked up by the government as the media was attached to her and they couldn't let her die. Luckily enough, she'd still had a heart rate and had merely slipped into a sort of pre-death coma, but the truth is that nobody ever ate anyone named Moran.

"Look, Holmes," Jim says quietly, "you can't get out of this. No matter how long you stall and procrastinate, the clock still ticks. The road still winds."

"Yet the road on which you walk is one I never knew," Holmes replies, his words slurring as his eyes begin to close again. "There must be some way for you to free me."

There's a soft laugh from the door. High, uneasy, desperate.

"I can't let you leave, Holmes," he replies. "I need you here."

Sherlock doesn't reply. He's too tired to care about the trivial things he's hearing. However, the words start sinking in as he begins to wake up, and the meaning pricks at his head while he does.

I can't let you leave.

"The government is easier on us because the media loves you, Holmes. If you're on our side, so are they." Jim takes a step inside and stares down at the empty syringes scattered all over the floor. "Look, if you leave, I'll not only go after you, but I promise with the bottom of my decayed and lifeless heart that I will go after John Watson, too."

Holmes' eyes snap open. He wouldn't.

But he would.

The possibility that John could be hurt is very much present. Rosie could be left without a father, and Earth without an angel.

"There isn't a way out of the Swings," Jim continues, "so my hint to you is that it's better to just sit back and abide."

Holmes sits up, leaning his head back against the wall as Jim seats himself at the end of the bed. He smiles menacingly, his mouth the only part of his face that isn't immobile, and speaks again.

"Where were you yesterday, exactly?" he asks, as if it's such a harmless question. "I never knew."

Holmes takes a sharp breath in, hesitating. He can't lie. Jim will see right through it.

"I was..." he pauses. "...with John."

Moriarty gives Holmes a look of pointed metal, an angled spear readily poised against his exposed heart. "With Watson."

Sherlock nods. He says nothing.

"And..." Jim keeps pausing now as well, neither of them really enjoying the conversation whatsoever. "And how did that go?"

Holmes sets his jaw. "It was decent."

"Oh, good, good," Jim replies awkwardly, nodding and staring at the wall. Holmes realises his hands are wringing his bedsheets with extreme force, wrinkling them and getting close to tying them in knots.

He opens his grip.

"He said he didn't want to be around me."

The sentence falls out of his mouth before he even remembers thinking of it. He just blurts it out, not knowing where it will go or what it'll get out of the conversation. Regretting it immediately, he purses his lips as if that'd stop the words from being said again.

"And that hurts, I'd imagine?" Moriarty asks, crossing his legs on the bed and meeting Sherlock's eyes. "That must be painful to hear."

What?

The? Fuck?

Is? This? Empathy? For?

...and also, where? The? Fuck? Did? It? Come? From?

Holmes' nose twitches, irritating the scab running across its bridge. His vision is full of question marks. "Yes," he says, although it's a half-whisper as it comes out. "It hurts."

He takes a shaky breath in.

"It hurts because I love him."

Moriarty gives a soft smile in response. "And you're afraid he'll never love you back."

It's surprising, this. It's so startling because of how well Jim understands. He knows how it feels. And he's never been one to feel anything.

Sherlock nods. He doesn't want to confirm it aloud; his voice might waver or crack if he does. He might cry again. He doesn't want that. Not in front of Jim. Not in front of anyone.

"Look, Holmes," Moriarty says, taking his hand and stroking it with his thumbs, "If you've found the right person, then it's simple enough to understand that you'll just go together. Whether or not they'll ever admit to loving you, you'll end up with the right one merely because you fit. Not because of what they say or believe or stop themselves from doing, but because there's no denying the way your puzzle end clicks just right against theirs."

Holmes realises he's been biting hard on his bottom lip for a long time. He legs it go. It's numb at first, and then it hurts.

"So just because he might say he doesn't want you to be around," Jim continues softly, his voice satisfyingly matching the lighting like olives and sun-dried tomatoes, "if you're right for one another, the universe will prove him wrong in due time."

Sherlock swallows, touched at Moriarty actually seeming to care. "You really think so?"

Jim nods. "I honestly do."

Sherlock looks away, suddenly lost in a sea of thought, consumed by the constant new waves and currents until he can't get his mind out of them.

Who knew that the most profound advice would come from an enemy?

And what a coincidence, too, that it's coming from someone he's trying to kill.

Holmes suddenly remembers his plan for today. He needs to get out of this sick business. And there's no other way to do it than the way he's been planning in his head for the past sixty hours.

Looking into Jim's eyes and hearing him care makes it harder. It takes him too much constraint to have to remind himself that this is a necessity.

I've watched him die once, he decides. I can handle doing it again.

Nonchalantly checking his pocket to make sure he has what he needs, Holmes takes a deep breath.

Now is the perfect time.

He tries to act casual as he forces himself into it. He hasn't killed anyone before. He hasn't killed anyone he's somewhat attached to, either, but this dynamic between them is one he knows he's better off without, anyway.

It's time to become a Swing.

It's time to make his first kill.

"Thank you," he says earnestly, and Moriarty looks blankly back at him.

"Of course."

Holmes takes the object out of his pocket, concealing it within his fist. He moves closer to Jim, keeping eye contact as he approaches his face. He tries to convince himself to kiss it. But, for a while, he can't.

It's hard for him to initiate this. He tells himself it's just Teddy, but the trick is getting himself to believe it.

He says it aloud: "Oh, what the hell."

It's no big deal. It's only a murder, masked by a layer of forced affection. It's nothing. Kind of.

But he has to do this. He has to force himself into it.

And so he does.

Crushing his lips against Jim's, he wraps his arms around his neck. This must be perfectly calculated, perfectly hidden, perfectly casual.

Moriarty chuckles in surprise, pulling Holmes closer and resting his hands on his back. "You're quite initiative today, aren't you now?"

Holmes replies with a convincing hum, pressing his body against him and twining the fingers of his free hand through his hair. Every so often he'll throw in a vocal sign of enjoyment, dodging all suspicion that he can. He sits on Jim's lap, pushing him backwards into the bed, leaning over him. Calculated. Premeditated. Terrified.

Moriarty's hands slide under Holmes' shirt, running up and down his back as Sherlock deepens the kiss with all the self-discipline he has. Their breath grows quicker, ebbing and staggering, more desperate with each individual movement.

"Oh, Holmes, you're good," Moriarty's voice chimes with an air of overdramatic cheerfulness. Holmes trails his mouth down to his ear, brushing his lips against it as he whispers a short reply.

"And how I wish that were true."

He takes the object in his hand, going back to Jim's lips again as he prepares it. And then, when it's just the right moment, he plunges it into his neck.

The object is a leftover syringe from the cocaine. It's seen too many of Sherlock's veins to count on one hand. It's weaved through skin and tissues into his bloodstream, sending substances to his brain and emotions away from it. Today, though, it won't be his body it's tampering with.

He's injecting the syringe into Jim's neck. Specifically his left common carotid artery.

And the difference is that it's completely empty. Well, actually, it's filled to the very end with air.

Jim takes a sharp breath in as the needle plunges in. His eyes shoot open, and Holmes pins his head to the pillow with his left hand as he squeezes the air out with his right. Moriarty's limbs flail at him, trying to damage Holmes enough to save himself, but he locks them against the bed with his knees until the air is all out.

"What the fuck?" Jim hollers, yanking the syringe out and chucking it against the wall. "What the fuck was that?"

Holmes watches him pant and hold his neck, his own gut beginning to sink in shame as he forces himself to admit it aloud.

"Three cubic centimetres of air into a major artery of the cerebral system," he explains. He pauses, his mouth hanging open soundlessly before he adds, "I'm sorry."

Jim looks so shocked that his emotionless face looks even more detached than its usual state. His eyes flicker, his breathing slowing back to normal.

"How long?" he asks solemnly, and Sherlock feels he has no choice other than the truth.

"You've got two or three minutes before you'll go into an irreversible cardiac arrest," he states, his voice weak and his face beginning to crumble. "I'm so sorry," he says again. "I'm so, so sorry-"

He's interrupted by something he thought he'd never receive.

Jim lunges forward. Holmes braces himself for a justified slap to the face or scratch to the eye. He flinches as he awaits it, waiting and waiting and waiting.

It never comes.

Opening his eyes, he sees his nemesis sitting right in front of him, an odd, out-of-place glint of terror in his eyes, and sees no anger or malice anywhere at all. He sees, for the first time in him, a human; real and scared and fragile, betrayed and dying right in front of his eyes.

He barely registers it for the first few moments, but Moriarty pulls him into a tight hug.

It's a petrified embrace, characterised only by the firm hold of his strong arms and the shaky breathing escaping his lips. It's a hug in need of comfort; in need of reassurance and caring.

And Holmes, finally processing it all, reaches out and hugs him back.

"I'm so sorry," he keeps blubbering, and he notices with some surreal shock that he's crying, even though he promised himself he wouldn't. "I had no choice. I'm so sorry."

Moriarty's breathing is rapid and panicked, tears of his own leaking through Holmes' shirt and onto his shoulder. "Stay with me," he begs in a frantic whisper. "Stay here and hold me."

Holmes nods, swallowing through his sobs. "I will," he promises. "I won't leave you."

Jim lies back onto the bed, laying his head on the pillow and staring up at the ceiling, his eyes wide, his pupils a storm of wind and internal screaming. Sherlock lies next to him, turning on his side and watching his face. His tears flow sideways down from his eyes, running over the healing cut on his nose, down his bruised cheeks and over his now-purple eyelid. Quivering with sorrow and guilt, he reaches out and takes Jim's hand.

"I'm sorry for the Teddy act," Jim says suddenly. "I pulled you in and I tricked you and I turned you into a philophobe. I made you scared to love because we had gone so wrong." The words spill out of his mouth more rapidly than his weak breaths do. "I did it to help you, initially. I promise. It was my job. I was told to get you to know about Denmark so the viewers would have hope of you surviving."

Holmes shakes his head, sniffling and squeezing his hand tighter. "It's okay," he says. "I forgive you."

"And I never should have brought you into this cult of mine," Moriarty drones on. "I just wanted to see you, and then I started wanting government protection, and now it's all one big mess-" he stops, clamping a hand over his chest. "-fuck."

His face is strained for a few moments, and then it's fine again. He leans his head back into the pillow once more, closing his eyes and sighing. "So, anyway," he continues, "in the next few minutes, when this is... over, I don't know how the Swings will react." He breathes in and then exhales again, as if trying to calm himself down enough to detach from reality again. "So I want you to run."

Holmes opens his mouth. "But-"

"I want you to run away and sail to Denmark. The government never planned to actually let you go, but I know you can, and you must." Jim purses his lips into a straight line, squinting as a few more silent tears roll out of the edges of his eyes. "Look, if Hell exists, I'm definitely going. But I want to arrive knowing I did something right."

His hand tightens around Sherlock's, who tries to give it a reassuring squeeze. It doesn't last long, though. It's hard to move your hands when you're crying too hard.

Holmes shakes his head. "I don't deserve this," he whimpers. Jim turns to his side to face him, squeezing his hand back and giving him a smile through his paralysing fear.

"Then prove to the world that you do."

The strangest thing about this all is that the glory in the thought of killing someone else all fades away once you actually go and do it. All the feeling is different than how the imagination plans it out. Holmes had expected to feel proud and powerful and heroic. He had expected to feel free and hopeful. He'd expected the future to be brighter, even, than a candleflame.

But now he just feels terrible. And scared. And sad. He wishes he were the one dying instead.

"I'm sorry for doing this," he says one more time. "I still care about you. I really do."

Jim tries his best to smirk at this, the dread in his eyes barely subsiding to the humorous gaze he tries to uphold. "If that's true," he says, "I must say that you have an absolute shit judge of character."

Perhaps it's the adrenaline coursing through both of their wiring, maybe it's the dissociative detachment they're forcing themselves into in order to deal with the harsh reality of death, but they both begin to laugh.

They laugh until it hurts. They laugh until the tears from their eyes no longer are caused by the pain of the moment but rather the pain of their stomachs constricting in hysterics. They laugh until their eyes are squeezed shut and their cheeks are red and until their throat feels like it may never breathe again. And, even in the threatening, final face of mortality, this rare breed of laughter is the absolute best one.

It stops when Jim's chest hurts again.

He's silent this time, his teeth clenched and bared as his hand grips his pectorals, his fingers yellow at the ends as he digs them into his own skin. His body curls up a bit, lifting itself up from the bed.

Holmes watches. He stops laughing, too.

Not knowing if there's any better way to comfort him, he slides his hand under Moriarty's, laying it over where his heart would be if all the layers of humanness were stripped away. He pretends he's really touching it. He pretends he can take away the pain.

But this is proof that, under the container, there's a heart inside of Moriarty. In the usual place, where you'd least expect it. Right where it always is; right where it is on everyone else. Jim has a heart.

Perhaps Holmes is just starting to see it now.

Jim's hands lay themselves over Sherlock's as his spasm calms down again. He lays once more on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

It's an obvious fact that the episode just witnessed was far worse than the first. They haven't much time now, at this rate. In fact, he's behind schedule. He's outlived those two minutes.

But that's like Jim, of course, to not really care about limitations. It's like him to change the rules of the game.

His hands are warm on top of Sherlock's. Clammy and sick, but warm. There's still so much life trapped inside of them. That's a strange thing Holmes has noticed: life doesn't just leave one slowly. People don't just deflate.

No; life hangs on until the very last moment. In fact, the last breaths someone has always seem to be the strongest they've ever breathed.

So, as Jim's grip grows stronger on Sherlock's hand, Holmes knows the clock is ticking. He knows the void before him is being slowly stitched out of reality. Slowly sealed so it will never drag any more insects into its gravitational pull ever again.

He doesn't know how to feel. But he's feeling a lot regardless.

"Holmes."

The word is short and urgent as it's spoken. It demands attention. And so it gets it.

Sherlock lifts his head. "Yes?"

Moriarty opens his mouth, hesitant to say what's going through his head or, possibly, having a hard time knowing how to phrase it. He swallows before blurting it out as simply as possible.

"I forgive you."

He lets out a breath it seems he's been keeping in the whole time, and goes back to looking at the ceiling.

The relief from hearing those three words make Holmes feel like the world has been lifted out of his hands. He doesn't show this, though. He doesn't dare.

"Truce?" he asks, making as much light as possible out of the situation. Jim lets a smile cross his twisted lips before agreeing.

"Truce."

Holmes smiles. "You've been a pleasantly mischievous nemesis," he compliments, if it even counts as a compliment at all. "If you hadn't shown up, life would be so uneventful and boring that I'd likely end up doing all those wrongdoings myself."

Moriarty chuckles. "And you've been an annoyingly respectable hero," he replies. "Glad to have worked in your field, even if it meant deserving my own death."

"And I, in turn, am glad to have fought against you doing so," Sherlock sighs. It bothers him how much he legitimately means it.

Jim smirks sadly, his hands squeezing Sherlock's as he turns his head to him. "Good."

"Good," Holmes agrees.

"If I've still got airtime," Moriarty sighs, "I have a few more things to say."

Holmes nods. "Go on, then."

"I've lied to you twice," Jim admits. "I pretended to be Teddy, but I also pretended to be me." He purses his lips, shamefully squeezing his eyes shut. "They recruited me because I'm an actor. My name is Richard Brook."

Although shocking news, Holmes isn't startled too much. He's too far into shock already to be alarmed by anything more.

"Alright."

"And the other thing," Brook adds, taking a shaky breath, "if, for some reason, you ever have to kill me again, whether it be some other universe or lifetime or dream or anything at all... I'd prefer something quicker. Like a gun, or serious impact. So push me off a cliff. Hit me with a train. Shoot me in the head. Anything. For my sake. I may be emotionless scum, but I still... I'm still scared."

Holmes nods, knowing the request is preposterous but giving into it anyway. "I'll take note."

Brook nods in thanks, clenching his jaw with anxiety. Sherlock watches.

And that's when the heart inside him breathes its last life-saturated breath.

Brook's breathing becomes shallow, sweat beading on his forehead. His pupils dilate unnaturally wide, his eyebrows knotting so closely together it's hard to tell them apart.

"Shit," he wheezes. "Shit."

They both know this is it.

Sobs escape Brook's lips. They're strange coming from him. It's like they don't belong, sitting between them like mint green designs on a bright red carpet. His face crumples and sags as he cries, and Holmes feel himself crying with him.

Sitting up on his knees and leaning over his wilting, toxic, terrible companion, Sherlock touches their foreheads together, shaking with tears alongside him. His hands don't know what to do. They're desperate, wordlessly grasping at anything there: his shirt, his face, his hands, silently pleading for things to be fine.

He's like this for moments on end until he doesn't feel him crying anymore.

It takes a while for it all to sink in.

Motionless.

It seems the word belongs more to Holmes than it does to the body below him.

Still.

So fucking still. It's contagious. No movement. Not a blink, not a word, not a breath, not a thought.

Dead.

Now there's the word Sherlock can no longer relate to. That's where the line is drawn: between the alive and the not so. And that's the border where he stands on the normal side and Richard Brook floats on the opposite one.

Holmes pulls away from the body. He stares blankly down at it forever. It's so perfect, like it's sleeping. He remembers Shakespeare's Hamlet comparing death to a longer, more permanent sleep. He now begins to understand why it's similar.

It's strange watching a dead person exist.

First off, it's an oxymoron. Dead people don't exist. But there's one right beneath him anyway. And he's so tangible. So undeniably present that one couldn't ignore it even if they had no means of sensing it at all. A lack of eyes and touch would be nothing compared to the heavy, paused feeling of a cadaver beneath you.

Second, Richard Brook, in all his fucked up essence, finally looks relaxed after an era of minute-long, paralysing terror. He looks peaceful. And that makes Sherlock feel just a little bit okay.

But he still killed him.

God.

He's still sobbing as he stands up. He wants to do something for the body, at least. He's the reason it's dead, so he might as well respect it. But what the hell would he do? Find some flowers in this raisin of a habitat? Carry him under the blistering sun just to toss him in the Thames like everyone else?

It dawns on him that the Swings must find out eventually that he's dead, and it would be simplest if they did so immediately by finding the body. So he does nothing with it. Nothing to suggest the death was planned. Nothing to hint at someone else killing this man at all. That's the good thing about killing someone cleanly with a needle. You don't notice someone else has killed them unless you're Sherlock Holmes.

He knows he has to leave.

I'm a killer now, he remembers. I've committed homicide. I've drained the life out of a living, breathing, feeling thing.

So he acts accordingly.

Grabbing his coat and clothing in one hand and his beef jerky in the other, he yanks his door open and bolts down the hallway. He has to get the fuck out of here, and he has to do it now.

He doesn't think twice as he reaches the door. He doesn't turn around to give the place one last look-over. He doesn't say a silent goodbye to the man he met in that Loon Room or any of the people at the dinner table. He has no time. He has no chance against Fate if he wastes any at all.

He's out the door before anyone ever realises he was there in the first place. He runs as soon as he leaves until he turns a corner and, finally, is free.

Free.

That's a concept indeed. One he doesn't know well, but one he's glad to have finally met.

Brook is free now; he knows that. Free from the world. Free from fear and loss and pain. Free from obligations and schedules and rules.

That's one thing Holmes finds peaceful about death as a concept: it cancels all plans and makes none. It releases you and lets you go further. No strings attached. No catch. Nobody is disappointed in you not showing up if you've died. It's like all the things that matter so much to people in life are for nothing. Nothing matters, really. If one died before a big speech, would anyone really care for real? No, not at all. Nobody likes long speeches anyway. Death is just the thing that makes these statements more clear. It proves a point. It's the free ticket out; the easy escape.

Easy, he realises. It's so fucking easy.

But it isn't the way he's obligated to go. Not now. He needs to help his family first.

Then, once that's all through and he's back to living with his guilt again, he might consider death, too.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

It's because he's looking at the ground so much that he notices that the path up to Watson's front door is made of cheap cobblestone.

It's because he's listening to all the sounds he possibly can to drown out his own head that he hears Kiwi's nails scratching at the door. She knows he's here. Of course she does.

It's because he's hiding his tears that he doesn't look up to see John's face as the door finally opens.

It's hard to speak. But the silence helps.

Taking a long, deep breath, he finally finds his voice. He breathes. He speaks. Two things he takes so much for granted. Two things that anyone could take away from him anytime with just an empty syringe. And, as they say, an eye for an eye. He'd deserve it.

"Would you accept me sill if I told you I was evil?" he hears himself asking. "Grotesque? Careless? Merciless? If I stripped someone of their own soul and left them still on a mattress to which I've only temporarily belonged, would you ever remember you still cared about the monster I am?"

He can almost hear John's concerned confusion. He closes his eyes, the darkness from inside the clinic reflecting off his own skin more than the skylight dares to. Again, he breathes.

"Please forgive me, John," he says. "I've done something terrible."

He feels himself sinking to his knees. He can hear himself hyperventilating.

"I've killed someone," he says blankly. "I'm sorry."

The last thing he's able to compute is John's hands catching him as he collapses into them. But it's all black, and the touch feels like it a million miles away.

He blacks out.


	24. On the Subject of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes tells Watson about what he's done.

«Would you love me  
more if I killed someone  
for you?»

-Alec Benjamin: If I Killed Someone for You

[Bruh istg he's not even my favorite artist but he's just so goddamn quotable that I end up using his lyrics in like every chapter what the hell]

-

Watson hasn't asked about it at all.

And, in turn, Holmes hasn't mentioned it, either.

They sit across from one another in the quiet waiting area, Holmes' left leg crossed over the knee of his right. John's legs are side-by-side, perfectly straight and perfectly symmetrical. He's so fucking heterosexual. Or, at least, he would be if a.) they hadn't snogged that one time and b.) he wasn't wearing that bloody sweater right now. He's so indecisive. So hard to figure out yet so simple to understand. It's strange and it's confusing and it's-

"Agitating," Sherlock says shortly. John furrows his brow.

"What is?"

"Shut up." God. Why he even had to ask is annoying.

They're quiet again. John holds Rosie to his chest as she sleeps, content and well-fed. She's been plumping up visibly lately, and it's relieving enough to John where he almost isn't pissed by Holmes' comment.

He sighs. "Look, if this has something to do with your episode-"

"It was not an episode, John," Holmes interrupts. "It was real."

Watson sets his jaw. "I wasn't suggesting anything otherwise."

Holmes' eyes flicker, although they don't move. The light squirms against them for the most fleeting moment as if it itself might be uncomfortable as well. His gaze is locked on the window. It never dances away.

"I don't like that you're acting like this," Watson says, articulating his words the more his voice wavers. Sherlock's face remains placid, almost a poker face except for the hint of arrogant irritation on his eyelids.

"Like what?" he asks. He challenges.

Watson takes a breath. It's the kind of way he used to breathe when he was uncomfortable. A clenching of the fist, a deep breath in, a brisk clearing of the throat. Reverting. Starting over again. The cycle continues.

"Like..." He pauses, uncertain, until a moment of thought helps him pinpoint it. "Like your old self. Who you used to be."

"We need to get some more people on our side," Holmes thinks aloud, distant as he says it and dismissed the comment.

Watson knows he heard him, though. "I know it's a defence mechanism," he says. "You can't hide that from me."

"Perhaps Hooper could get us a few plants if we're extra charitable to her lost causes of a personality."

"Why don't you tell me about it?" John demands. "You passed out, for f..." He glances around. "For flames' sake."

"If Mycroft isn't busy with his computers and wires, maybe he'll-"

"I hate that you've put that wall up again. It's like talking to a goddamned television. I miss how you were a few days ago. I miss your emotion and your... your humanness and your-"

"...help us," Holmes continues with the hint of a glare on his brow. "Although he's never been the selfless kind."

John gives a forced exhale. "Talk to me, dammit," he snarls. "Talk to me like a normal-"

"Do you think if we bribe him with scones he might agree to assisting us all?"

John doesn't mean to shout. But it happens anyway. It's so forceful and sudden that Holmes has barely finished his sentence before-

"I lost my wife!"

He almost screams it. The exclamation is raw in his throat, leaving beads of water in his eyes and redness in his cheeks. He bites on his lip in fury as Holmes' silent gaze finally meets his own.

"I lost her," he says again in an angry, broken whisper. "I lost her and I'm grieving and you're the one person who's able to give me enough support to keep me the hell alive so give it to me, for the love of God!" He feels a tear slip over the edge of his eye and onto the blanket of the sleeping child in his arms. "The least you can do is talk to me like I actually exist."

Sherlock looks at the floor, biting the inside of his cheek. He shifts in his seat then, sighing and turning the rest of his body to face him.

"Fine," he says, hesitantly but surely indeed. "I'm sorry."

"And you can start," John instructs, his free hand hitting his knee as he leans forward, "by telling me exactly what you're so torn up about. Exactly what is so 'real'."

Even the silence breathes as the two of them do, uncomfortable and tense while simultaneously not wanting anything to change at all. The anticipation is so fluid and full of motion yet their bodies stay so still. The contradiction of the scene is so overwhelming that it's hard to get enough.

Holmes' now-scarred nose crinkles in dread, his eyes casting a snotty look in Watson's direction. The room is quiet, the flaking walls even listening in. The ambience is perfect. The isolation is preferable. The destruction of the world around them is serene.

It's the perfect time to speak.

"Well, then," Sherlock sighs, looking down at his hands. He likes looking at them. It reminds him silently that he's still here. Still alive. Alive through all this. "I told you I killed someone."

John nods. "Yes," he confirms, waiting for the moth before him to discredit the statement. Waiting for an excuse about being tired or too shaken up or too malnourished to think properly, making the wrong words string themselves together like popcorn on a threaded needle and fall from his lips like chocolate drizzled on peppermint.

But he expects wrong. He always does, doesn't he?

"It's true," Sherlock sighs. "I'm a murderer."

The hands he's been looking at reach up and cover his face, eventually tangling into his hair as his eyes press themselves shut with all their might. Wanting not to see. Wanting not to notice. Wanting nothing.

"God, it's terrible. And I don't even..." His hands begin to shake a bit as he laughs. "It's so traumatic that I... I can't feel it. I panic when I think about what I've done, but the only time I cried about it was when it actually happened."

John's jaw is open in shock. Holmes? A murderer?

"I think I'm going insane, John," he admits breathily. "My mind is slipping. It's my surroundings, I tell you. It's London. The sudden lack of rules and resources and people has weaved its way into my head. The survival switch has become so strong and permanent in my wiring that it's taken over my head." He trembles, I crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees, hunching forward and biting his lip.

"I killed Moriarty."

John doesn't speak. Not like he can.

He's sitting in the same room as a person that has killed someone. And not just any someone, no - Sherlock Holmes killed the one person powerful enough to kill him first.

Perhaps this is the Sherlock Holmes he had been warned about. All that time ago, stepping off the chopper onto the dusty, abandoned streets, perhaps this is what the man had alerted him of. Although he was sane back then, John is beginning to wonder if the infamous, clever, dangerous man is finally starting to appear.

"I had to," Holmes continues. "It's no excuse, but I had no choice. He'd only try and hurt other people if I didn't do what I did. He'd only hurt us further. Us and the Swings and the victims on the streets and the media and everyone."

John clutches Rosie close to his chest.

"It wasn't gruesome. It was a mere injection. Almost painless. He died of a heart attack." Holmes takes a breath. "No blubbering or gore or vomit. It was so clean. And I promise you it tore me up. My own heart hurt more than his dying one did."

"You really killed him."

"I did, and my mind is going crazy, and we need to get out of here," Sherlock says. His breathing is shaky as he stands up. "We need to leave before all the killing seeps in and I start liking it."

"You wouldn't!"

"But I would," Holmes whispers. "I'm desensitised enough already. We have to go." He grabs his coat from the hook on the door and slips it on. "I don't care if you have someone lined up to take care of your patients. We need to get the hell out of London as soon as we can. And we start the process now."

"What?" John asks, finally regaining a bit of sense. "We just leave? Just like that?"

Holmes laughs. It's an emotionless one, devoid of all the flames it once used to harness. "Not at all," he replies. "We get people on our side. We start a revolution. We set things right. And we escape."

"Wha-Where are you going?" Watson questions, standing up from his seat as well and preparing to put Rosie back to sleep upstairs.

"A quaint little place; you might be familiar," Holmes explains. "Near Regent's, actually. I'm sure you're acquainted with 221B Baker Street?"

"Oh, no," Watson breathes. "I can't face them again. And especially when I'm not prepared-"

"Get your coat. It doesn't matter what the hell you're ready for," Holmes growls. "What matters is that we leave."

John pauses. He sighs. And, his gaze hardening the same way it used to in the war, he feels himself nod.

"Alright," he gives in. "We can go."

He turns to the stairs, beginning to pace up before turning back and adding:

"Give me three minutes."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Mycroft is busy when they finally reach 221B. He's surrounded by computers and wires, clearly hooked up to the secret electrical system. John explains that they extended the wires not long after Sherlock died, and even the clinic uses a bit of it every now and then.

One might argue that they're stealing from the government. Mycroft would argue that he is the government.

Tom stands behind him, looking over his shoulder at everything he's looking at. Neither of them acknowledge their guests as they walk in, and so everyone is drawn to the screens before them.

"Hello, brother," Holmes says, leaning over and staring at the headlines before them. Mycroft barely nods as he scrolls through the news.

It's all over.

Our Favourite Duo is Back, but Now They're Trying to Leave

C2309: "A Little Bird Told Me Denmark is Lovely"

Saving Rosie: Their Big Plan

Who Do We Root For Now? Our Geniuses are Leaving Television

Every headline from every country, starting immediately from their conversation about leaving, talks about it.

In Watson's peripheral vision, he sees Holmes set his jaw.

Sherlock reaches up to his collar, unclipping a small device from it and glaring down at it in his hand.

"God damn it," he mutters. "I'd forgotten to take this off. I ruin every fucking thing."

John clenches his teeth as he stares at the tiny camera in Holmes' palm. One tiny, minuscule, insignificant device that might've just ended their entire chance of getting out.

Their entire chance, perhaps, of saving Rosie.

Mycroft speaks for the first time since they've arrived, his usually-unalarmed face now plagued with wrinkles, age making an appearance on his folding skin. "We've got time."

Tom Moran raises his eyebrows. "Do they now?"

"Chances are that checking up with media isn't the first thing on our law enforcement's agenda," Mycroft says. "If you begin your plan now, you'll already be a few steps ahead once they find out what's going on."

"How long, exactly, have we got?" John asks. He's not even mad. He's not even disappointed. He feels nothing except for urgency and practicality. It's all that matters now.

"From what I've observed over the past year or so," Mycroft estimates, turning back to the screen of the laptop, "you've got just under two weeks before they make sure to block the coastline and any ways over it."

Two weeks.

Hell itself wouldn't even be indecent enough to give such a deadline. Fourteen days to get your belongings and people out of a corrupted country? Satan would cringe.

But they aren't dealing with Hell. No; not even close.

They're dealing with something below the underworld. The epitome of filth and shit, trickling down and over and beneath every basis of human nature until they're saturated with it and eventually become the one thing they hate. They're dealing with slugs and fanged flatworms worse than demons and devils. Worse than goblins or vampires or the undead.

They're dealing with the very bottom; the lowest one could possibly go.

And perhaps that's a bit extreme, but nothing is really worse than considering the possibility of your own child passing away.

"Can you help us?" Holmes asks, clamping his fist around the tiny camera and shoving it in his pocket. "Are you willing? You can certainly join us on our way out."

"I'm only coming if Molly is," Moran pipes in, "but I suppose I could help you either way."

Mycroft swivels around in his stolen office chair, considering it all for just a moment. His eyes gaze off into the far distance, long beyond the walls they're contained inside, far over into somewhere green.

"Perhaps..." he begins, face strained yet incredibly deep in thought, "Perhaps everyone can help."

"Everyone," Sherlock replies with an air of intrigue, "including the Swings?"

Mycroft gives a faint smirk.

"Everyone."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Sherlock collects his most important belongings from his old room, dusting everything off as he does, seeming to grieve the rest of it already as he decides what to leave behind. He makes sure John's pocketed all of Theo's letters for safekeeping, no longer because he's attached to Teddy but because he ended up killing him and it seems to be the most respectful way of giving back for such a deed.

One copy of 1984. One of his many novels from Virginia Woolf. One encyclopaedia. One journal. One pen. His violin and its associated items. One old photograph of what John can only assume are his parents. One notepad.

They all (except for the violin, which is carried by the handle of its own case) fit snugly into John's knapsack, which Holmes tightens as it's already on Watson's back. Walking out of the bedroom is almost as hard as entering it. It's almost like losing a friend.

"God, that mattress alone has seen more than we have," Holmes sighs, gazing longingly at the room as they both hesitate in the doorway. John chuckles, looking over at Sherlock in playful admiration.

"It's seen us snog in the dark, didn't it?"

Sherlock leans his spine against the doorway. "Poor thing; it did," he confirms. "How drunk were you, by the way? Just for the record, I mean."

"Drunk enough to be convinced to kiss you," John replies. "Which explains the nasty hangover I got from it."

"Well, if it didn't cause you so much physical discomfort the day after, I'd suggest getting you drunk more often," Holmes remarks, turning and rushing down the stairs before Watson has time to comprehend the suggestion behind the sentence.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"God knows how long a boat will take to get from here to Denmark," Mycroft tells them once they've gathered their things together in the front room, "so we'll all need some sort of fresh food to keep our nutrition from getting worse than it already is."

"Hudson knows where to get potatoes," John suggests, and Holmes nods in return.

"And maybe Hooper could lend us a plant." He casts a strange, prying look at the woman he's mentioning.

Molly Hooper, leaning against the opposite wall, narrows her eyes and sniffles, scrunching up her nose in defiance. "Absolutely not."

"Well just steal it from you if you don't help us," John replies. "Then you'll not only have been unhelpful, but also bad at it."

"If you dare try to take any of my plants," Hooper snarls, "I'll try and take your heads and see how you like it."

"It does kind of defeat the purpose, doesn't it?" Holmes smirks, to which Hooper scoffs and looks away.

"Don't regard her," Mycroft mutters. "I know how she filters her water anyway so we might as well just plant things ourselves."

"Or she could make it easier on everyone and give us some fucking food," Sherlock replies. "But I suppose she just isn't cut out for leaving this hell-hole with the rest of us."

Hooper shrugs. "I suppose I'm not, then."

One less person to worry about. Should be easy enough.

"And how about Lestrade?" Sherlock asks in a hushed voice, leaning in so it isn't too obvious what he means.

"He's degenerating, but he's very much alive. He's been sleeping a lot more and hasn't left his room much," Mycroft informs them. "I'm sure I can speak for him when I say we'll definitely join you on your trip out."

Holmes nods, picking his violin case up off the ground.

"Good," he says. "Tell him I say hello."

Mycroft nods. "Right, then. Leaving?"

Sherlock gives John an asking sort of look, and Watson nods.

"Yeah," he confirms. "I look forward to causing a scene with you."

And, like wind on a flame, the door shuts and dampens all light in the room as Holmes and Watson finally leave for home.


	25. To the Stars and Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes comes completely clean. The Swings deliver some promising news.

The tiny camera is so heavy in his hand.

I ruin everything.

Everything.

He takes a breath.

Every-

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

John doesn't expect to walk into what he does.

The room is dark, the shades pulled tightly shut. The only light coming trough the bottom reflects on something small and sharp, glinting between three fingers as it presses against skin. Metal on blood; two metallic tastes clashing against one another like two different ocean waves.

Watson's heart jumps in his chest as he throws open the shades. "What the hell are you doing?"

Holmes glares up at him. "Leave me alone."

Watson looks at him, the thin line of daylight painting a crooked line across his fitted skinny jeans. He does not like what he sees.

Holmes' left arm, not only full of bruises from his most recent cocaine binge but now also lined with small, thin scabs, is about to receive another stripe. Watson's heart sinks in shock as he takes it all in.

"Don't do this."

It's all he can say.

Sherlock's hands are shaking. "I can't explain it, John," he says, "and I know you won't understand, but I have to. I can't live with myself knowing..." He trails off. His nose twitches. His eyelids quiver. He takes a staggered breath and brings the blade back to his arm.

"Stop! Jesus. You can't just die, either," John growls as he kneels in front of him. "And, at this rate, that's where you seem to be heading. Now calm the fuck down and give me that, for the love of God." He snatches the blade out of Sherlock's grip, sliding it into his own pocket for safekeeping and examining his friend's arms.

"But I'm not gonna die, John," Holmes objects softly as John examines his cuts and bruises. "I'm just gonna hurt."

John looks up, noticing Sherlock's tired, puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. He's beautiful when he's sad. The sadness makes him so gentle; so innocent; so protectable.

"Oh, Holmes," he hears himself whisper, "you're hurting enough already."

That sentence alone is enough to set everything off.

Sherlock crumbles in front of John, becoming an avalanche of pain and sorrow swirling on with the ocean of regret at his feet. He holds his face in his hands and sobs with all the voice that's left inside him. He hunches over. He heaves.

He wants to throw up. He wants to stop breathing. He wants to hurt, and then he wants to die.

He feels John's arms wrap around him, pulling him into his lap like a child and rocking back and forth. He feels his hands in his hair. He feels safety.

And since safety is there, he speaks.

"It's all real," Sherlock chokes out. "Before, life didn't seem real. Killing a real person didn't seem like a big deal. But it's still real life, and I've woken up into it, and now that blood is on my hands..."

"Shhh," John replies, pulling him tighter in. "I know."

They're both quiet then. And it isn't the right kind of silence. It isn't the comfortable silence they're only able to cherish around each other. It's a different breed; one of pain and fear. One of sorrow and worry. It's a headache kind of quiet.

"John, there's something... I want you to know," Sherlock whimpers into Watson's shirt, his tears flowing into the soft, dirty fabric. "Well, actually, I don't want you to know it because it's bloody terrifying, but you deserve to know what goes on in my head." He takes a shaky breath.

John nods. "Yeah, okay."

"I've been dancing around the subject for years," Holmes explains. "We both have, really. We've been brushing up against it and then waltzing away from it again. And it's been a lovely dance..."

He wipes his own tears away, turning and leaning his spine against John's abdomen.

"...but the song is over, John," he whispers. "It's time for all the dancing to come to a close."

Watson's heart patters unevenly inside his own chest. The sons reverberates inside the cavity of his own ears.

He knows what's coming.

But that still doesn't prepare him for it when it actually arrives.

The thick silence pauses. The filtering light stops moving. Everything stops existing for just a moment to hear what Holmes has to say.

He takes a breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leans back against his one friend.

"I still love you, John."

And there it is.

He admits it. It's refreshing and terrifying and there are two possible outcomes available:

1\. John liked that  
2\. John did not like that

He weighs them in his head for a while before deciding that he shouldn't care. His job is to come clean on all levels. His goal is honesty. This is the best way for him to get it.

So he tips. He falls. He spills.

"I love you to the moon and on," he explains helplessly; hopelessly. He hears his own breath hitch as he says it, anxious but not feeling he deserves anything better. "I love you to the stars and down." He leans his head back against John's collarbone. "I love you all the way around the Earth in thousands of intricate circles."

He can hear John's heartbeat. He can feel his pulse.

"That's the truth," he says. "The whole thing. All of it. Inwardly, my soul is a hopeless romantic," He swallows and takes another somewhat-stable breath. "And it's settled on you."

Both of them begin to feel emotions they've never had before. John shifts in his seat, not pushing Sherlock any farther away but not pulling him closer, either.

"I don't know what to say," he replies finally. Holmes focuses on relaxing his face, listening intently to Watson's heart and wondering if it's in time with his own.

"You don't have to say anything," he says, sinking deeper into John's chest. "I don't expect you to."

It only takes him three minutes to fall asleep.

John's hands are still tangled in his hair when he does, playing with the dirty, wild curls as comfortingly as they can. They're so innocent; freer than Holmes will ever be again, blind to trauma and forgiving to the wind that races through it.

Sherlock will never, from now on, live a day without thinking about what he's done.

It just makes him and Watson that much more congruent. It makes them match. It makes them fit more easily side-by-side.

John sighs. He likes the thought of that.

Standing up, he eases Sherlock onto the old mattress and goes through his pockets, taking the needles and blades from anywhere he sees them, and he leaves the room, hoping for at least Holmes' dreams to be okay.

Due to experience, though, he knows they won't be.

But one can still dream.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Holmes wakes up to the sound of a barking dog.

At first, he's delirious. He can't tell where he is or what time of day it is. And he doesn't know why the hell there's a dog or why it's making so much noise.

Once he's blinked awake for a while, though, he remembers that he has a dog. Kiwi. And she still exists.

It isn't long after the barking stops that the door to the room opens to reveal Watson just behind it. He smiles once he sees Holmes is awake, his middle finger tapping against the door as he holds it open.

"Someone here to see you," he says. "Don't worry about fixing yourself up. You look good."

Sherlock pauses. "Um..." He adds a swallow, his brows wrinkling together a bit. "Thanks."

John's silhouette leans against the doorframe, mixing together with the shadow of the cool, bare wall. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Sherlock replies, getting up off the mattress and heading over to John. "Other than always feeling like I want to throw up and then sacrifice myself because I'm guilty of fucking homicide."

John closes his eyes. "Please stop talking about yourself like that."

Holmes replies with a faint smile, stopping in front of John and looking down at him. "Would you rather I lied?"

John sets his jaw. "Just, please," he says as Sherlock walks past him into the hallway, "please don't hurt yourself anymore."

He's met by silence, watching Holmes' still back freeze at the sentence. Watson takes a slow breath and decides to add onto what he's said.

"I care about you too much," he admits. "If you do it to yourself, you do it to me."

Holmes turns his head to the side, both cherishing and hating the sentence.

"You really know how to persuade me, John," he replies. Watson smiles and watches him descend the stairs to meet whoever's at the door.

He almost calls him Sherlock in return.

He's so close.

Reaching the waiting area downstairs, Holmes recognises five people he knows quite well. At first, he thinks he's in trouble. His heart jumps in his chest and his mind begins to panic. His hands feel immediately sweaty at the mere sight of them all.

They're the higher-ups of the Swings. And they're in John's waiting area. To see Sherlock.

"Don't worry; were not mad," the first man says upon seeing his startled expression. "We've only come with news."

"We found his body on the bed and immediately knew who had done it. But, Holmes, you fed us for three days."

Sherlock's mouth tastes like sick at that sentence. He purses his lips and looks at the floor.

"Ever since you walked through the door, we knew you'd bring a wind of change," the first man says again. "You even proved it at dinner. You don't take no shit, Holmes."

"Language," the second man corrects, to which the first rolls his eyes and continues.

"Look," he says, "we're having a bit of a crisis over at our headquarters because we don't have anyone to lead us." He sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "So we were all hoping for someone with good, strong morals and a heart fearless against revolution."

"Absolutely," the others behind him agree, and Holmes feels his eyes squint in confusion.

"We were wondering, if you'd be ever so kind," the first proposes slowly, "if you'd be up for it."

Oh.

Holmes doesn't know what to say. He decides on a question.

"What?"

"Everyone really looks up to you," the woman in the back explains, carving something out of a small block of wood. "We adore you because you make us imagine a future even when we were already so sure we didn't have one."

"That's why we want you," the man agrees. "And it doesn't have to be permanent if you haven't the time. Just until we get things sorted out, at least."

"And you don't have to decide now, either," the lady adds. "Just please try to know by tomorrow morning."

It takes Holmes a few moments to find his voice.

"I'll... get back to you."

The man nods, smiling respectfully through his long beard. "Thank you."

They all make their way to the door, but the lady stops just before walking out and peeks her head back in.

"On another note," she says, "we received Adler's body yesterday."

Holmes' lips part. "Oh."

"She left a note on her countertop saying she's left all her belongings to you. So you'd better get to the joint before they ransack it."

"Oh," Sherlock says again, not knowing what to feel about it all. "Yes."

The lady nods, stepping out with the rest of them and closing the door behind her.

Silence.

It hits Holmes like a brick to the stomach, almost making him double over. He's so overwhelmed, but he can't do a single thing about it. Here he is, surrounded by the one thing that's never failed to calm him down, and he still feels so insane.

He begins to pace around the room, searching desperately for anything with a chance of grounding him. Looking outside does nothing, so he forgets the window. Chairs are stupid. Why do they still have them? They allow so much thinking.

But his searching comes to a halt when he turns to the stairs.

There, sitting on the second-to-bottom step with his child in his arms, is the one thing Holmes knows he can always turn to.

"John."

Watson smiles proudly at him, gently laying the sleeping Rosie in his lap. "Hey, genius," he replies. "Mr. Big Guy now, hm?"

Sherlock sits down next to him, crossing his arms over his knees and sighing. "I don't know if I can keep it up without going insane. I mean, I'm insane already. I feel it. I see it. There's a detachment making me a fraction too unstable."

He hangs his head, closing his eyes. Trying to calm down.

"I don't know if I'll be able to do this."

A comforting hand places itself between his shoulder blades, folding the small creases in his shirt. John's hand is so warm. So pure through the fabric of his clothes that it's able to make him feel immediately a little better.

"You will," he replies simply. Surely.

And it's comforting. And it grounds him.

And things are good.

"And God rest Adler," John adds. Sherlock nods, taking a deep breath and focusing on his hand.

"Cheers to that."


	26. A Study in Selfishness

"I've been looking for you."

The sentence reverberates through the quiet darkness of the underground, bouncing off the tile walls and dancing into his ears again. The words themselves trickle over the arms of the figure below, wrapping around them, nudging her awake. He shakes the woman beneath him, giving a soft smile as she opens her eyes.

"Hello, Hudders."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

John has been extra careful recently.

He's been going around the building, making sure all scalpels are hidden away and his employees keep them secured. He's gone through Sherlock's pockets when he's been asleep, taking all the needles and drugs he could find, and locked them up in an empty storage cupboard. But he's still on his toes, and he's still worried, because you can't confiscate sadness.

Turmoil isn't something you can snatch from the inner pocket of someone's coat and put it somewhere they won't look. Things just don't work that way. Pain is a human right; an insufferably natural phenomenon, and John finds anxiety knowing that it could lead to Sherlock seeking out the things Watson has actually been able to take away. The material things. The sharp things and the anti-reality things and the things that sad people should never touch. The irony, though, is that sad people are the only ones who ever reach for them at all.

John distracts Sherlock as best he can. With good things. Nice things. He takes his mind off of life by using a different kind of touch he hasn't often used before.

He's been doing it more and more lately, specifically after Holmes confessed his feelings about him. He knows he won't mind. He knows affection helps sad people. So he'll offer it in passing, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder each time he walks by to another patient, or a pat on the back before stopping to talk to him. It's become a habit, and he rather likes doing it. It makes him feel warm, especially knowing that it just might make his friend feel a little more loved.

That's what matters, isn't it? Love?

Perhaps it is.

John sits on the bottom of the stairs and holds Rosie during his break, contemplating this all.

Maybe love is what he's been missing all this time. It makes sense now. These days, he really cares about people. About Rosie. About Sherlock. And perhaps that's what he's needed to learn all this time.

The door opens, and he lifts his head. Rosie looks at it attentively as she suckles on her bottle and two figures enter the room.

"Hello, John," the first voice greets him. "Hopefully you've finally decided on who's going to take care of this place once we leave."

It's Holmes, back from his morning prowl on the town. John shrugs, pretending he didn't spend all morning thinking about it.

"I think I'll promote Stevenson," he ponders aloud. "I thought it would- My God, it's Mrs. Hudson!"

And it is. Walking in behind Holmes is the one woman who cared for them both even when they didn't need it. She looks thin and wiry and cold, but she's still her usual bright self. She glows, her frizzy hair sticking out at the ends just how it always does. She's always so bright, managing to ebb through the dust and grit of modern-day London no matter the day.

"Watson," Hudson replies fondly, walking over with outstretched arms and giving him a soft hug. "And little Rosie, I see. I've been just waiting to meet this one."

Holmes smiles, hanging up his jacket and moving over to them as Hudson coos adoringly at the baby. Watching the scene is like stirring liquid gold, precious and warm and so soft, and we all enjoy it through our little screens. Everyone watches the old woman meet the young girl. Everyone on Earth.

"You can hold her," John offers, passing Rosie into Hudson's comforting arms. "Our room is the first one up the stairs to the left if you'd like to get to know her in a cosier environment."

He's overjoyed to see her, of course. He isn't trying to push her away. But he needs to catch up with Holmes, and Hudson is quick to catch that drift as she gives him a suggestive wink and heads up the straits. John is annoyed that she sees through everything he ever says, but he lets it go. Because she's here, and he loves her and misses her and the cons are all worth having her around.

She disappears up the steps, leaving Holmes and Watson in the room by themselves. Sherlock walks over to the window, and John follows him, weaving between the empty, decomposing chairs behind his friend.

They look outside. There isn't much to see. Just dust. Swirling and dancing on the neglected streets, forming into little spirals in the light wind and dancing into a completely different formation just as soon as the first one is presented. Constantly changing, constantly moving, never at ease. Watson thinks it's quite like London that way. Quite like him, too. Quite like the world.

"I'm going to hire Stevenson," he quietly announces as Sherlock crosses his arms and stares outside. "They're really good with people, which I think is a great asset to this whole thing. The last thing London needs is a head doctor who makes days worse."

Holmes nods stoically. He likes the decision, and he likes Stevenson, but he'll never admit it. He likes sounding neutral. It makes himself feel untouchable; sturdy, never swaying. "Glad you've figured it out."

They watch everything move. No people or animals are anywhere to be seen, but there's still so much movement. So much sand and wind and long-dead leaves. It's almost as if nature is trying to make a point, screaming at the top of its lungs that people aren't necessary. Nobody's needed in order for things to go. The world can spin without people on it. Perhaps that's why a bit of it decided to dry out.

John remembers that Holmes still needs comfort. Moving a bit closer to him, he reaches a hesitant hand out and places it on his back, right between the blades of his scarred shoulders, wishing he could heal them through the thin fabrics of his shirt.

"How are you?" he asks, looking up at Sherlock, who glares outside like his life depends on his outward moodiness. The physical connection does soften him a bit, though, and his arms loosen around themselves as he replies.

"I'm fine."

Watson's hand lazily drops down to Holmes' lower back as he watches him. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock is too flustered go respond.

He swallows, blinking a bit and focusing his eyes on the world ahead of him. "I'm unhappy," he finally admits after a moment of concentration. "I'm feeling very bad."

His arms uncross themselves and position themselves on the windowsill as he leans against it. John doesn't move his hand. He refuses to. He likes the effect it has.

"I'm sorry," he replies. "I'm here for you."

Holmes' eyes flutter away from the window for a fleeting second before bolting back to it. John takes a deep breath and continues.

"I care about you."

It stings his throat to say it. It hurts to force it out because Sherlock is one of the two people he's ever said that to. And the other is dead. But it's worth it, so it's said.

Holmes seems to melt at the words, his eyes softening like warm butter and his muscles relaxing as he listens to the sentence. His lips part soundlessly as he tries to think about something to say in return. Too many things come to mind. Big things, small things, extravagant and eloquent things, love and romance and friendship. But he settles on something simple instead, knowing it's the one sentence that'll never come out wrong.

"Thank you."

He's choked up. He can feel it and hear it in his own voice. John can see it in the little way he flares is nose, and the tiny shift in his shoulders as they tense up. It's so adorably fragile. So lovably Sherlock.

Watson is a bit dismayed, however, as Holmes shoves his hand away from his back. He lets it fall back to his side, immediately regretting letting it leave him at all.

"I'm sorry," he utters. "I thought you..."

"Like it, yes," Sherlock interrupts, his voice thick with emotion. "It's not the time. Not now. Please."

John turns away. He says it again.

"I'm sorry."

His ears are hot. They sizzle and prickle him. He doesn't know why.

Holmes takes a few moments to compose himself. He forces everything down, staring at the cracking windowsill below him. For a minute or so, he closes his eyes.

"Rosie fell asleep," Hudson announces from the top of the stairs as she makes her way down. "Stevenson said she'd take care of her–"

"They'd take care of her, Hudson," Sherlock and John correct in unison, causing Hudson to stop on one of the stairs and go through a few seconds of confused intrigue.

"Ah," she replies, descending the rest of the stairs again. "Anyway, I was hoping to discuss the plan. I've no idea what's going on and id love to know what I'm going to be part of."

Watson sits her down on one of the chairs by the table and lights a candle, beckoning Sherlock to sit down as well. He seats himself next to her, unable to keep back a smile as she reaches over and takes his hand.

"And how have you been, Watson?" Hudson asks genuinely. John sighs and shrugs.

"I've been better," he replies. "And I've also been worse."

Hudson nods understandingly, closing her eyes as if remembering something from too long ago to recall. "I know how that is," she says. "Things can be hard. And you feel like you'll never get out of them. But I promise you, something always changes. For example, I was stuck with my bloody husband Frank for years until one day the government decided he shouldn't exist."

Watson gives a pained, sympathetic laugh. "And I was stuck with my wife for years until I killed her and then realised how much I wanted her alive."

"You didn't kill her, John," Sherlock interjects from the window. "I know what it looks like to kill people. That was different."

Hudson casts a worried glance between both of them, her brow wrinkling together as she purses her lips.

"Anyway," Holmes says, taking a sudden breath and hurrying over to the table, "we have things to discuss."

He pulls out a chair for Hudson, sitting her down in it and pushing her in. He seats himself just next to her, and John sits adjacent. He takes a match. He lights a candle.

"Just explain your Hudson everything you've explained to me," John prompts, blowing the match out as the candle bursts aflame, "and then we can finally begin doing something about it."

Sherlock nods. He speaks.

John doesn't listen. He sits there, watching. He sees.

The soft candlelight glows against Holmes' healing skin, rough against the new scar over the bridge of his nose. The fire is comforting; consoling, even.

And in the light, Sherlock's explanations paint pictures on paper that isn't even there. It weaves its own canvas, and, gently, it uses its own weathered brush against the taut, softened edges. John sees it all vividly as he speaks. His voice is pure black ink on a flamelit piece of parchment; even more beautiful than blood and bone could ever be.

Often in life, there's a moment when something really clicks for the first time. It happens rarely, and not at all to some. But you'll know it when it does.

John finds himself remembering what Sherlock told him. About the stars. About love. He remembers him using his first name when addressing him. He remembers the night with the wine and the days afterward. And he remembers how awful he felt when he thought he was dead.

And he thinks of this moment, too. Right now, sitting across from one of the cleverest idiots to ever walk the Earth; one of the most beautiful, talented people to ever make an appearance. One of the loveliest songs ever played. One of the most broken people with the most feelings he's ever seen.

And there it is.

Click.

Watson blinks as he shifts back to reality, snapping out of his daze and feeling a strange look cross his features. Holmes catches his eye, pausing for a moment before continuing his explanation to Hudson. John just sits there.

If it's possible to ever shock oneself, John Hamish Watson has just went and done it.

He taps his first finger against the table. He's discovered something. And he doesn't know how to feel about it. Although he really doesn't know how to feel about a lot of things.

Holmes notices the click. Perhaps he hears it, too. His eyes keep glancing back at the man sitting across the table from him, analysing, questioning.

John does not answer.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"So," John says later, rolling out a few blankets for Holmes to sleep on after giving Hudson the mattress in a different room. "We're just going to... up and leave?"

Sherlock furrows his brow. "Did you expect something else?"

John can't say he did.

"Selfishness is key, John," Holmes says. "If it weren't for selfishness, we'd all be dead."

Neither of them admit aloud that dying actually sounds a bit more preferable and therefore more selfish than living. They're quiet. They're good at that.

"So what do we do now?" John asks, tucking Rosie under a few extra blankets as she sleeps. Kiwi curls up next to her, her tail resting over the bundle.

"Tell the Swings," Holmes replies.

"Tell the Swings?" Watson repeats. "And leave Rosie here with nobody who has time to take care of her?"

"Hudders," Sherlock reminds him. John remembers.

"Hudson's with us," he replies. "Right."

Holmes crosses his legs, resting his elbows on his knees. "We're all together now," he remarks. "We're a family again."

John nods somewhat awkwardly, looking down at his own hands. "I suppose we are."

"We're unconventional as all hell," Holmes snorts. "At this point, do we even count?"

Watson smiles. "Of course we count."

Holmes smiles, the dim light in the room glinting off of him.

"Of course," he replies. He takes a breath, looking down and nodding. "Of course we count."

John's eyes linger for a few moments too long. He looks away and lays back.

"Goodnight, John," Holmes says using his first name, and Watson finally has the courage – and the click – to return the favour.

He closes his eyes, pulling his blanket over his chest and taking a small breath.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."


	27. Gather 'Round

They're in one of the biggest rooms they've recently been.

The Swings are all crowded around or near the long dinner table, Holmes standing in the front of the room. He explains the situation. He explains the plan.

"We start an uproar," he announces. "A revolution so that, when I'm gone overseas, you can stay alive. And this is where I need your help, because I haven't planned too deeply yet."

The room is pretty quiet as people start thinking. John leans against the wall, lifting his hand slightly to signal he's come up with something.

Holmes turns to him. "John?"

He says it how he always says it. Urgently, softly, as if John is the only person in the entire world.

Watson nods. "We could put some sort of sign at every camera so that they're forced to broadcast the message," he offers. "And if they don't want to, they'll have to go off the air."

Sherlock's face lights up. Swirls of texture dance across his pupils. Energy. Energy is what it is, circling and twisting until even his hair is alight - bursting - with sparks. "That's good," he replies with a thoughtful point of his index finger. "Anyone else?"

Someone at the table stands up. "The signs could say something about us being real people," she says. "That we're more than just digits."

"Days are numbered; we shouldn't be!" someone pipes up from the back, causing a ripple of approving yells from the rest of the room. Holmes looks overwhelmed by inspiration, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted in an overexcited grin.

"What we need," John adds, "are signs with our real names written on the front. We can wear them over our clothes. Hang them over the police notices on the walls. Make sure they're prominent. Make sure people know who we are."

"Yes!" Holmes says enthusiastically. "Perfect. Anyone here up for making signs?"

"We could all make our own signs," a teenage boy in the front suggests, tapping his foot wildly on the concrete floor. "One of our own name and another for general revolution. That'll make for a small workload and a quick execution."

"Good. Yes," Sherlock replies. Picking up a map he brought from home, he unrolls it and sticks it up on the wall with a knife. John knows that map. He remembers how it felt to first see it. He knows it too well.

It's the map that consists of all the locations of security cameras and monitors around Central London, the dark blue ink still young and visible against the rough, decaying paper. Looking at it feels warm. Holmes' thin fingers smooth it out, trailing across the main lines before turning back to the Swings.

"Now, I know a few of you here are... somewhat unhappy with me being the person up here in the front of the room," he says, his gaze washing over a few angry-looking Swings in the crowd.

"Bloody cantankerous is what they are," Watson taunts as Holmes takes a breath and absentmindedly touches the scar over his nose. Their eyes catch one another's. Holmes' shoulders stiffen.

"Anyway, you're lucky the person your gang appointed happens to be a fucking fantastic planner, because you'd otherwise have to find all these cameras yourself," Sherlock deadpans, his finger hitting the map again. "Each dot here represents one camera. Circled dots are the ones most used. Every camera should have a sign before it, obviously. Do I have to explain that? I'm not going to. Preferably, we'll prepare all the signs today and put them up tomorrow."

A hand is raised in the crowd, which Sherlock points to. "Yes?"

"I've got paint and paper."

Holmes nods. "Bring it."

The lady scurries out of the room to retrieve it as someone else offers a question.

"And what about you?" he inquires. "How long will you help us before you leave us all for dead?"

John sighs. Damned skeptic.

"Additionally, don't you think there's something wrong with the fact that you're the one planning for a world you won't even be part of in a week?"

"If you have a better idea, you are absolutely free to carry it out yourself and see how it works," Holmes offers with a hint of sarcasm. "To answer your first question, though, John and I will help protest until people start coming after us. Our goal is to at least have all the cameras shut down before we head out. We can't leave you in hell without smothering at least a few flames."

John nods in confirmation. "We'd like to essentially gain enough momentum so that we aren't needed by the time we leave." He crosses his arms. He's been holding Rosie so much recently that he doesn't know what to do with his upper body when he isn't. Hudson has her at home now. He realises he misses her.

"And speaking of leaving, John," Holmes says meaningfully, giving an exaggerated nod to the door, "we should get home to the baby."

"Yes," Watson replies immediately, pushing off from the wall and standing up straight as Holmes reaches for the door. "We'll make our signs later, I suppose?"

"Yeah, we'll be fine," Sherlock replies with an air of rushed importance, waving at the crowd in the room as the two rush out the door.

The handle latches. Both of them stop in their tracks.

They're in the long, narrow hallway Holmes has walked down too many times. It reminds him of Jim. He pretends it doesn't. He pretends he can't feel it. He pretends the memories don't haunt him with every reminder he sees.

John crosses his arms again. "Why'd we leave so promptly?" he asks. "Is there something wrong?"

"Um..." Holmes takes a breath and shakes his head. "No."

Watson blinks in reply. "Then why—"

"Everything is right," Sherlock says, suddenly turning to him and giving a bright and wild explanation. "The plan— John, you're brilliant. Brilliant, I say." His hands grip Watson's shoulders and give them a small shake. "Absolutely, almost inconsequently, perfectly clever."

Watson looks up at him. "Really, now?" he asks. Holmes nods almost furiously, his thumbs pressing firmly against Watson's clavicle, warm and soft and somehow, unbelievably, a comforting gesture.

"Incredible," he continues, "how I showed up without a plan and you gave me one. It's foolproof. It's clever. It's good." His eyes hold a childlike form of passionate excitement, nearly bursting at any seal and overflowing out of his lips.

Watson barely hears him. He isn't paying attention to what he's saying. He watches his eyes, his expressions, his hands pressing his shoulders back against the wall. He feels his heartbeat down his back. He doesn't know what he's doing.

Holmes notices a change, and his eyebrows furrow just enough to notice.

"John?"

Watson's eyes stay locked on him. He feels like making a mistake.

Pushing forward, he leans toward Sherlock, cupping his hand around his neck and pulling him back against the brick with him. His breath hitches in his throat. His mind seems to not have the control it usually does. He keeps pulling him in.

Their foreheads touch, both of them silent as they meet one another's lively eyes. Their noses rest softly against one another, paused as Watson figures out how the fuck he got here and where the fuck he should go next.

He decides, out of pure logic, that it's too late to turn back.

And so, in the doomed state they're in, even in the darkness, the flame finally meets the lack thereof. And the moth, lost in the chambers of desolation, finally finds it.

The last time they kissed, John had been drunk. It had been wild and feral and untamed, careless and intense and unemotional. This time, John is sober. He's slow, careful, gentle, soft. Pulling Holmes the last inch closer, he does it with care; as if he really means it. Because he does.

Everything before, every "I love you", every touch on someone else's skin, everything at all, was nothing close to right now. All of it had one purpose alone: to lead to this. To give a contrast. To show him how much more real it is on this moment than it ever has been before. Watson is sure of it. And he doesn't know too many things.

Another thing he knows for sure: Sherlock's lips feel the same as they always have. After all the battering and tearing of skin, they're still soft and comforting and pleasant.

Sherlock, although anticipating the gesture, is still surprised as John kisses him. At first, he doesn't know what to do about it. He stands, frozen, waiting for some sort of instinct to kick in.

He then finds out that it's less about waiting for instinct and more about instinct waiting for you. And he feels it waiting. He can hear it. It's just in his reach. So, his eyes fluttering shut, he falls in.

Holmes leans his hand against the wall as Watson cups his face in his hands. All at once, he forgets Jim. He forgets that their world is ending. He forgets that anything exists at all. Everything is John. The brick on his palms and the concrete beneath his feet are barely there. His heart palpitates. His breath gets caught somewhere between his lungs and the beginning of his tongue. He doesn't mind.

He's lost in it. Lost in John's name, lost in John's hair, lost in John's hands on his face, trailing down to his shoulders, down to his waist, pulling him close until they're completely interlocked. Lost, of course, in the best, most surreal never-ending way that exists.

When John pulls away, neither of them know what to do. So they stand there, bathing in the comfortable silence only they're able to share, their foreheads resting together as reality sets in and they find themselves back in the hallway again.

Sherlock takes a breath, unable now to express what the hell he's feeling. So, out of pure instinct, he settles on "Fuck."

John giggles at that. "What's that about?"

Holmes looks at the floor to hide the redness of his cheeks. Trying to be coy. He fails. "If I were only confident enough, that would have happened so much earlier."

Watson smiles and leans his head back against the wall. Holmes starts pacing back and forth, processing everything. He pauses.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I've said this before," Holmes says softly, partially turned away. So vulnerable. So fragile. Even with his strong build and angular appearance, even with his neutral expression and tall, looming stance, he seems so small. "But I think you should hear it again. I..."

He pauses, absentmindedly clasping his hand over the latest scratch on his arm. Watson notices, but he tries not to acknowledge it.

"Say it," he prompts softly, his eyes trailing up and down the man standing before him. The genius, the friend, the human that he is. "It's okay."

He knows what he wants to hear. Holmes knows what he wants to say.

"Yes, well," he breathes, combing his fingers through his own hair in stress, "I..." He lets go of a long breath. "I love you."

Watson has, indeed, heard him say that before. But today, right now, it means so much more.

His throat stings as he tries to use it. He thinks about Mary. He thinks about the things he used to tell her. He feels untruthful, disloyal, dishonest. But he pushes it down. He whispers back, weak and shaky as he does.

"I love you, too."

When their eyes meet, Sherlock is crying. John can't be sure why.

Neither of them can tell what kind of tears they are. They could be coloured by the red of overwhelm or traumatic remembrance or the golden hue of absolute contentment. But, as he wipes a few off of of his own cheek, Holmes decides that it's probably a little bit of all of it.

Like a child, he flings himself at John, burying his face into his shoulder and wrapping his arms as tightly as he can around his torso. He lets himself cry. He lets himself find comfort in the strong arms embracing him in return.

"I never thought I'd hear you say it back," he admits. Watson's arms grow tighter around him.

"Well," John replies, his heart still wild in his ribcage, "it looks like even geniuses can be wrong sometimes, hmm?"

Holmes laughs through sniffles, his tears soaking through the neck of Watson's shirt. "Thank God for that," he exclaims. John grins into his soft hair and nods.

"Thank God."


	28. To Adler

Between everything that's happened, they've almost forgotten about Adler.

The locust, of course, has finally fallen, leaving behind three entire rooms full of things they used to own, mixed with dust and filtered light and the faint smell of liquorice. And while it's so gracefully slipped itself into their hands, it's miraculously almost slipped their minds.

Of course it's due to a change of heart; a drastic priority shift. This shift started happening slowly around the night Watson arrived in London. It progressed, paused, reset, started over, and yesterday it decided to take a full swing. It tipped the scale; changed the entire course of the river.

It's amazing what a simple expression of emotion can do; what a simple human touch can evoke. In all the chaos of the outside world, the crumbling stone walls and the deteriorating, near-anarchic government, one small proclamation of affection can make you completely forget—

Adler.

Holmes wakes up across the room from Watson with a jolt.

The food.

They have to get the food before someone else does. The government will even go after it once they know. They can't risk another feud with them.

Sherlock jumps to his feet and grabs a random shirt, pulling it over himself and rushing over to Watson. The floor is cold on his feet (although when is it not? This is nothing new), and he grabs his old scarf, draping it over his arms to compensate for his lack of warmth. Even in the darkness, he can tell the dark blue has faded from the tendrils of thread. He knows how the colour felt against his skin too well to not notice its absence.

Perhaps, he thinks, everyone's fading. Perhaps soon everything will turn to black-and-white.

That's why they need to get out of here. Hues are fading from everything; even his own reflection. His skin turns paler each day, and he can't know for sure whether it's due to malnutrition or his own insanity warping his perception.

"John," he whispers urgently, shaking him awake.

Watson squints, disgruntled, at Holmes; something he does even when he hasn't just been woken up from sleep. "Hm?"

"We have to get up."

"What?" John asks softly. He turns, pauses. "Why?"

Holmes doesn't stop himself from ruffling John's hair as he explains, watching his eyes flutter and feeling his own heartbeat - though he's unsure of whether it's out of admiring repetition or an individual emotion - doing the same. "We need to go to Adler's old place."

"Ah, Adler, yeah," Watson replies, furrowing his brow and sighing. "Good idea."

Sherlock stays there, looking down at him. Noticing all the little details he's already seen before. The things he's already acknowledged, but feels like he has to go over again. The wrinkles and lines, scars and folds. Everything that makes him who he is. Everything that makes him John Watson.

Noticing Holmes is still kneeling there, Watson rolls into his back and sighs. "What else do you want to tell me?"

Holmes purses his lips. "Um... I love you."

John smiles a bit, his eyes still completely closed. "I love you, too. Now let me wake up and go feed Rosie or something. It's such an anxious feeling when you're looming over—"

Holmes is out the door before Watson can finish the sentence. He can hear him chuckling down the hallway.

He thinks it's really bloody cute.

As Sherlock's footsteps recede, the very specific, lively thump that John knows so well growing softer until they fade out completely, he lays on his back and looks up at the water-damaged ceiling.

He thinks about Rosie.

The last time he held her for more than five minutes was probably last week. It makes him feel guilty. It did then, too.

She felt soft in his arms the prior night, so unaware of the world. So innocent and unafraid. She contently looked around the room as John bounced her on his thigh, shielding her from Kiwi as she attempted to nuzzle in and lick her.

He felt so proud holding her. His child, this form of life that he was responsible for. It was hard for him to believe that this little person was his. That she had a copy of his very DNA circling throughout her entire body.

And yet it still seemed he wasn't close enough to her.

Blood, he realised, can't bond people on its own. Even if you share it, there has to be time involved.

His heart clenched in his chest as he noticed how little time he'd been able to put in.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say, his voice sounding thicker than he wanted it to. "I wish I could care for you more. I wish I could be present as a father."

Rosie blinked, listening but not processing or understanding. Yet still, John felt he had to say it anyway.

His father never had time for him growing up. John wasn't even too distraught when he died. But even though he drank and hit Harry and swore like a sailor, Watson still wished he knew him more.

He didn't want to be the dad that his father was to him.

Apocalypse or not, he wanted to be there.

But, as he set Rosie back down in her makeshift cradle - a basket stuffed with blankets and loose fabric, he forced himself to accept the fact that such a reality couldn't happen.

Not now. Not soon. He had to be gone. He had things to do.

He left the room. He hoped she could forgive him later.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Don't you find it alienating?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. He doesn't like questions like this. It puts him under pressure to just so simply know what John is talking about when, after all the thinking he can possibly go through, it isn't direct enough at all for him to put it together. So he has to ask. And he hates asking.

But it's okay, because it's John who says it. If it were anyone else, he wouldn't even bother to put in the effort of conversing further.

"Find what alienating?" he drags himself into asking.

"I mean, we haven't done something like this in quite some time, have we?" Watson remarks as they step outside. There's no breeze. Holmes insists it'll feel like there is one once they gain some momentum. "It's just so odd to see everything out of place again when it seems like everything else has fallen into it."

"We really haven't done this in a while," comes the reply as Sherlock picks up the pace and disregards the rest of the sentence. "Wanna steal some bicycles from the Swings again?"

John crosses his arms. "Does it even count as stealing if you're in charge of all them now?"

"Well," Sherlock banters back, "it certainly isn't as fun to think of it that way, now, is it?"

It isn't.

They find themselves racing one another down the silent street, the tyres of their "stolen" transportation skidding on the gravel as they push on. And Sherlock was right; there is a bit of a breeze now. But of course there is. He's always right. He's got everything figured out all the way down to the core of the Earth. Or, at least, that's how John sees it.

"I'll beat you," Sherlock laughs, his voice echoing off the bricks around them. John, though his legs are shorter and he has less of a chance anyway, decides to prove him wrong.

"Fuck no, you won't," he challenges back, giggling as he shifts into a higher gear. "Not when I'm on gear six!"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "You're on gear six? I'm on four."

"Oh, kiss my arse," John spits back. He likes swearing now that he knows he's almost untouchable. He feels the power course through his arteries. Sherlock notices. He finds it charming.

"Gladly," he snickers, satisfied as John doesn't skip a beat and rolls his eyes in return. An eye roll is how Holmes knows he's won. He smirks, pretending not to notice himself slowing down to let John get ahead for a while and have his fun. But, soon enough, they find they've both slowed down, and they stay pleasantly side-by-side as they travel to their destination.

The sun isn't quite up yet, but the air is already hot. John, who's been wearing Sherlock's jacket until now, takes it off his shoulders and knots it gently around his waist.

Pink sunlight hits Holmes right under the eyes. He can see it between all the buildings ahead, filtering through the thick dust and leftover pollution between them and the clouds. It drifts onto John's face as well, and they both inhale as if it's possible to breathe it in. It'd be comforting if they could. To hold the sunrise inside your chest. To pump it through your bloodstream. But the comfort of seeing it alone is just enough where they don't mind that they can't.

"Sherlock."

What a nice word to say. Such a privilege it is to let himself call him by his first name.

Holmes blinks, pink reflecting off even the thinnest parts of his eyelashes. "Yes, John?"

Watson is afraid he'll overuse this sentence. He's been saying it so often lately that he's hoping neither of them get sick of it within the next week.

"I love you."

He feels like he has to say it. Like he's obligated. Like all the times he ignored the feeling are all pouring out right now in one big wave.

And it's alright. Holmes likes it. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of it at all. Hearing it still near stops his heart.

He breathes. For a moment, he closes his eyes as he pedals forward. He feels the sun. He feels the words. They blend so beautifully together. I love you on soft pastel. It has the comfort of a candleflame. He can almost feel the match being struck between his fingers.

He feels himself smile as he opens his eyes again. He turns to John. He watches him.

He says it back.

For years, Holmes has been living with a constant sense of tension in his veins. Always a little too much wind bearing down on his paper-thin wings, threatening to break them apart with one wrong tilt. Something in his life has always been just off-kilter enough for him to constantly fear stepping over the edge. But right now, it's all come to a momentary stop. Right now, if only for a little while, everything is okay.

"I love you, too."

He wants to learn the phrase in every possible language. He wants to know how to say it in every single known way, and he wants to say them all to John. His palms grip tighter to his handlebars as he realises that not even six thousand and five hundred different languages could possibly explain it in the way he'd like it to be told. So, for now, he's sticking to what he knows.

.-.. —- ...- . / -.— —- ..-

He clicks the code on his brake handle. Love you.

John smiles. Holmes, because of this, feels accomplished.

They pedal on.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Do the police exist anymore?" Watson wonders aloud. They've stopped on St. Martin's Street, and the sun has finally turned the sky a bit closer to blue. The closest it can get, obviously, when air pollution muddles it still.

"Likely," Holmes replies distantly. "Probably just like living lazily more than doing their job. Although, really, I do commend them in that case. It certainly makes all this a bit more convenient."

The truth is that the police do exist; they just haven't seen them. If I were to say that I didn't exist and my colleagues didn't exist it would be a lie.

At this point, though, the police have better things to do. For example, focus on keeping certain people from leaving.

They nestle the bicycles behind an old shed, or what's left of it, at least. Holmes takes his rucksack off his shoulders, holding it nonchalantly between his fingers as he types in the keypad code on Adler's door.

There's a soft, hollow click.

"The body," Watson clarifies slowly, "It'll be... gone, right?"

"Fuck if I know," Holmes replies under his breath, pushing the door open and being hit with the immediate smell of dust and mould. "Ah; we're in luck. Looks like they've disposed of it."

Watson lets out a short breath of only partial relief. They step inside cautiously, closing the door behind them with a soft, muffled click; a click that they both know too well to even mention.

They both spot the paper at the same time.

"Chocolate and ivory," Holmes points out. John nods, adding: "Bone and blood."

It's a note.

On recycled paper, it seems Adler used her own blood as ink. Sherlock picks it up with a slightly-shaky hand, tensing up as he looks over the misspelled myriad of words and shaky penmanship. Most likely written within her final months when all her senses started to go at once.

"She knew she was dying," Holmes observes. "Otherwise she wouldn't have been able to write this before losing control of her limbs."

Watson looks over the note next to him, skimming over all the letters. "What an awful thought."

"What's an awful thought?" Holmes asks. Again with the vague statements. They make him uncomfortable. So loose and never set in place.

"Oh, you know," John says, even though Holmes really doesn't know, "Knowing you're dying."

Sherlock takes a small breath in as he nods. "Mm," he agreed, before adding in a slightly more detached tone, "It is."

A remarkably comforting silence washes over them. One of those special silences they can share without feeling the need to break it off. Their eyes seem to both shift to the letter at the same time.

-

Holmes, Watson,

I know I'm dyeing. I ate enfectid meat so time is runing out.

Ther isnt much for you to liv off of but there's enough. I know your plan Sherl because I once contimplatad the same thing. So liv off of this while you can and rashin it wel. Nows your chanse to get out of here.

Anyway this is for you. I wish you the best. Out of all the people who could hav it, you doserve it the most.

Best wishes to my best partners in crime.

IA  
J3463

-

"Moody," Holmes remarks blankly, setting the note back down on the counter and taking a poll on the amount of food left in the space. John rereads it a few times, thinking rather fondly of the letter on the contrary. He feels cared for. He sees Adler as a noble dying thing. And many dying things are not typically such.

Dying things are often just scared. It's instinct, of course, but not many are brave or emotionless enough to override instinct. Hell, even Sherlock himself was scared to die.

Watson remembers Cole.

That's the first time he's even thought about the war since he got here. He had kind of forgotten it happened, like it was some odd fever dream that he woke up from years ago when all this began. Like the apocalypse is the only real world he's ever been part of.

But Cole.

Cole was real.

He was a scared dying thing. But he was noble, too. Or, at least, John likes to think so. It's hard for him to tell whether or not his vision is clouded by his own adoration for the man.

He starts spiralling down into memories again. Blood, gangrene, rotting corpses, loud noises, bits and pieces, trenches. Carts, boxes, papers, maps, radios, weapons he never even held. He finds that symbolic. He isn't sure why, or of what.

A familiar voice snaps him out of it, though. A comforting one. One he knows is real and alive and right here.

"John."

Watson blinks back into reality and notices Holmes beckoning him into the next room. He follows him in, looking at his own eye level to see a whole box of powdered milk. His breath catching, he grabs it and tears it open. This could feed Rosie for another week if they mixed it in with her food. It'd help rationing a shit ton.

"Oh my god," he breathes, yanking Holmes' knapsack out of his grip and stuffing the little packets inside. "Milk."

"Oh my god," Sherlock also says, looking at his eye level instead. "Wine."

And indeed it is. On the shelf above, three bottles of red wine are left, coated with dust but looking the grandest they ever have before. Watson snorts, packing more milk powder in the bag as Holmes silently suggests making room for a bottle.

"Oh, fuck you," John giggles as Sherlock forces one into the bag. Holmes chortles quietly in reply, slinking around the rest of the room to pretend to focus on things that are actually important.

"John," he says, turning suddenly to face him, "How ready are you to leave the clinic?" He takes a breath, the warm smell of dust hitting him in the back of the throat.

Watson pulls the bag shut, setting it carefully on the withering floorboards and looking around some more. "Why?"

"Hauling all this back and forth will get tedious, along with exhausting us and taking up time we could easily save otherwise," Holmes explains. "I suggest we change the lock code on the door, set up camp, get Hudson, and move in here until we leave for real."

Watson nods, feeling strangely nonchalant about all this. Living in a constant disaster will do that to you, he supposes. "Sure, whatever," he says, grabbing a familiar glass jar from the shelf and offering it out. "Care for some liquorice?"

"Sure, thank you," Holmes replies, walking over as John sits on the floor and leans back against the wall. He does the same, grabbing another bottle of wine along the way and biting the cork off with a small pop.

They each take a piece of liquorice, holding them up in the faint light filtering through the boarded windows as an almost ceremonial gesture. Holmes, feeling as if he has to recognise their circumstance in some way, nods and gestures to the room.

"To Adler," he says courteously, watching the dust dance around the room and finding comfort in knowing that it's dust that he owns now; dust that he won't have to share with the woman who stole it. Because she's dead. And thank God for that.

John smiles graciously in return. "To Adler," he repeats in agreement, giggling as he taps his piece of liquorice against Sherlock's as he would a glass. Holmes finds this charmingly amusing as well, a smile crossing his lips as they both eat the stale candy.

Sherlock is able to down the stale thing with a sip of the wine, sighing peacefully and resting his head back against the wall. The two of them share a common silence; one in which they both feel the same emotion: absolute contentment. Relief, even. Although they have such a long way to go, right now is okay.

Holmes' hand finds itself slipping between John's arm and the rest of him, trailing its way down his wrist and softly taking his hand in his. Doing it sends him a rush of gorgeous adrenaline, because here he is, making a move, holding John Watson's hand, sitting in the building where they began. He notices the feeling of John's skin. It feels so pretentious to touch. Like it's worth more than his own could ever be. Like it's more luxurious than any home or car or government-given title that even Mycroft himself could get his grimy hands on. It makes Sherlock feel superior; like he has this unattainable thing that nobody else can get close to because the experience belongs to him and him alone.

He takes a sip of wine with his free hand, passing the bottle to John and giving his hand a fond squeeze.

"I want you to tell me about something," he says. Watson seems parched while he gets near chugging the alcohol, stopping quickly once he remembers that they still need to bike home and he can't just hail a taxi. He still forgets sometimes. Everything seems so ordinary these days that it's hard for him to automatically remember the difference between ordinary now and ordinary then.

"What is it, then?" he asks when Holmes doesn't offer the thing that he wants to know. Sherlock keeps his eyes still fixed on the bars of light casting themselves in small lines on the floor. He clicks his tongue before speaking, exhaling softly into the dark, brown-toned room.

"When I was gone," he begins, hushed and gentle, "how did you get to... where you are?"

"What do you mean?" John asks with a soft smirk. Holmes looks down at his hand, stroking it with his thumb.

"I mean that I missed out on so much," he explains. "Once I got back, everything was new and different and reinvented. I had to relearn the life that I'd initially taught you." He turns his head to face Watson, searching his eyes for anything at all. "You started helping people. You took over a whole building. You hired employees, found food, gathered supplies, changed the entire atmosphere of London in terms of human interaction and togetherness. You even found a woman. And I missed it all."

John seems to physically wince at the words. He shrugs and pretends he didn't. "Things changed," he admits slowly. "But it was all due to avoidance. I had no passion for what I was doing or who I was with. It was all just a big blur with the one constant factor being my own agenda. I had to make myself busy." He puts another piece of liquorice in his mouth. "And I had to forget that you were dead."

Sherlock's eyes run over John's face, calculating as best he can. He sees sadness and discomfort. Almost like torture. He knows the feeling. He has it imprinted permanently in the lines on his shoulders.

"I didn't realise how difficult my job actually was until winter came. Before that, I wasn't focused on it as much as I was set on not being focused on anything at all. But it got cold, and so did people, and all of a sudden I needed to care for everyone and feed everyone and house everyone. I thought I couldn't take it all," John says, closing his eyes as he tries to recall everything. "And then Mary got pregnant, which was less than ideal, and all of a sudden I had the entire world on my shoulders."

"Mm," Sherlock hums in reply; a confirmation that he's listening. "Good thing you've got sturdy shoulders, hm?"

John smiles softly. "I didn't then."

"If you didn't, you'd probably be dead, too," Holmes remarks. "So I might be bold enough to say that your shoulders are the strongest in the world."

John laughs. "Oh, shut up."

Holmes takes another sip from the bottle of wine, setting it down between them.

"Before all that," he prompts, "in the early stages, you were sleeping here. Adler, for some reason, let you stay."

Watson furrows his brow. "How'd you know that?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath, preparing all the words and storylines in his head before spiralling into them. He chuckles, although it isn't particularly out of amusement.

"I knew you'd go to her for help," he sighs out. "And I knew she was as dirty as a person to not care much about you to give you anything."

"So?" John asks, shifting against the wall to face him.

"So I took up her offer," Holmes replies. "I let her have me for a night every month to keep you alive."

Watson gives an incredulous laugh. "You? You were trying to be bloody dead and you decided 'Oh, you know what? I might just start letting Adler give me sexual torture,' just because you thought I couldn't fend for myself?"

"You couldn't fend for yourself," Holmes almost interrupts, his tone serious, his eyes lacking amusement. Watson immediately feels terrible for laughing. "I was the only person on planet Earth who still gave a shit about you. I barely had a choice."

John is a defeated sort of quiet. Guilty. Remorseful. He stares at the floor.

"Every time when I would enter that room, I would walk past you," Holmes remembers, feeling a tightness in his chest. "It was so hard, John. So difficult not to wake you up and tell you I was here. It was so hard to just... walk away."

"I-" John starts to say, but then doesn't know what to say. He falls silent again; an invitation to hear more. He doesn't know how to feel.

"The government kept me alive. Told me I'd get food and a bed in their headquarters as long as I kept this dumb little camera on my collar so I could work as a spy. So I tried not to go into the city much. I wouldn't want them all knowing more, you know?" Holmes takes a feverish sip of wine, the memories eating at his skull. "Everything recorded would broadcast on live television. I would watch it obsessively in my room and wait for you. But you were rarely ever there. It was like I'd really lost you. I barely ever saw you when you were awake. I had no way of knowing that Adler was holding up to her end of the deal. I had no way of knowing anything."

His first finger taps wildly against John's palm. Their fingers have casually unlocked while he's been talking. John intertwines then again; gives Holmes' hand a comforting squeeze.

"All that time," Holmes says, "all those many months, I was only waiting to come back to you."

Watson feels a tightness in his throat. He swallows it as best he can, but it seems to inch its way back to where it started.

"I..." He takes a breath. "I don't know what to say."

Sherlock takes another piece of liquorice. "I don't expect you to say anything."

He stands up, offering his hand to help John to his feet. Pulling him upright, he takes the knapsack off the floor and slings it over his shoulders.

"Let's go back," he says. "We need to get all our things before we end up drinking too much. Do you know where Hudders is?"

"I think she's out trading for potatoes today," John replies, plugging the cork back into the wine bottle as best he can and setting it back on the shelf. "Likely in the underground."

"I'll find her, then," Sherlock replies. "You go get your things. Try to move as much as you can in one trip as possible. We can get Rosie and Kiwi tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan," John replies.

Holmes reaches for the door, but Watson stops him before he can open it. Turning him back around, he links his arms around his neck and gives him a soft peck on the lips.

"I love you," he reminds him, opening the door himself because Holmes is still somewhat stunned. "Oh, and try to hurry Hudson. We've got a new life to prepare for. You know how slow it can be to get her to leave any sort of social location."

Holmes smiles, a bit of redness stuck in his cheeks as they walk into the sunlight and pull the door shut behind them.

"Of course," he says. That's all he can say.

Of course.


	29. Tallies

«It'll form as a habit   
and seep in your soul  
Till the stream of your blood   
runs as black as the coal.»

~Johnny Cash: Dark as the Dungeon

—

"What are you here for?"

There's a dark silence. Tense, powerful and equally powerless on both sides. Their eyes meet, both faces shadowed by the darkening sky so the light is split perfectly down the centre of their noses, half-and-half, charcoal and cream. Or perhaps like the Oreo cookies they used to sell in supermarkets in those plastic packages before everything stopped existing. Divided seamlessly, never mixing, never separate. The yin and the yang.

Their jaws are tight, their teeth gritted, everything wound up as far as it can go. A spring, they both are. Old and rickety and ready to pop back up after being condensed for so long.

A hesitant breath, a sour eyebrow raise. "You know why I'm here."

"On the contrary," the other says, moving to guard his own door, if you can call it his, "I truly do not. Now, unless it's an emergency, I recommend you depart and go back to your... whatever it is you're doing and wherever it is you're doing it."

"Mycroft."

A nasty smile. Ingenuine. "Yes."

"I'm your brother. Let me into my flat."

Mycroft blinks, placid. "It isn't yours."

The other Holmes takes a deep breath in. "Mycroft, don't test me. Your arms are roughly the density of an old carrot and now is not a good time to need medical assistance when your doctor is the one you're indirectly damaging."

Mycroft lifts his chin in proud hesitation. Fighting to keep his dignity, he closes his eyes and steps aside. His younger brother lets himself in.

"Interesting, what you've done to the place," Sherlock remarks, lifting his eyebrows and staring around the front entrance. Mycroft pulls his shoulders back and clears his throat.

"Interesting?"

"Well, really," Sherlock replies bluntly, "it looks like utter shit."

Mycroft releases a tentative sigh. "What do you want?"

There's a click of a tongue. A breath. Spiteful, cynical, sarcastic. Unevenly raised points on a rusted bed of nails. Just a bit too sharp in the places that count; a bit too uncomfortable for either to inwardly handle.

"What do I want?" Sherlock reflects, moving around the room and glancing over things, noticing footprints and marks where fingers have been and faded spots in the floorboards. "Oh, many things. Considering the fact that you're my brother, I might as well tell you those normal updates about what's new in my life, and then, according to ordinary people, you should reflect on that and tell me what you think about it and then, in turn, enlighten me on what your life entails, if you're up for that sort of thing. Which I know you aren't—"

"I'm not."

"—but do try to lighten the fuck up," Sherlock finishes, narrowing his eyes and tipping his head with a slight sarcastic smile. Mycroft scoffs and looks begrudgingly down at the floor.

"And what?" he asks. "Do you honestly expect me to think that your little boring life in the blandest location on the planet would have any new settlements about it?"

Sherlock straightens his spine, looking Mycroft straight in the eyes and taking a short breath. Mycroft braces himself for the nasty verbal blow that he can already feel is aimed to strike him in the face.

"I want you to know that since we last spoke, I've coordinated an entire escape plan without you, by the way, and without your stupid computers and wires and ideas about tapping into electricity lines and whatnot that you never carry through. I've devised an entire step-by-step program to get us all out safely, including you if you listen to me for the first time in your life. We'll sail to Denmark—"

"You really enjoyed Hamlet, hm?"

Their eyes meet. Irritated. Put-off. The older Holmes feels smug; the younger wonders why he's even offering help. Perhaps he should abandon ship. Or at least abandon blood and kin (the more he ponders it, the more he seems to like the thought).

"Is that all you do? Connect real-life experiences to media? First you relate the cameras to The Truman Show and now this? As if Jim Carrey and Shakespeare have anything to do with..." Sherlock cuts himself off before continuing, "We'll sail to Denmark and leave everyone else to finish the revolution that we're going to start in roughly, oh, a few hours. We've prepared everyone we can to fend for themselves and overthrow the government as we know it. Mrs. Hudson also hates your guts and the undigested shit inside of them."

Mycroft says nothing. Sherlock takes a step closer.

"I'd also like you to know that I've finally cracked out of the shell I built around myself due to you constantly tormenting me during and after childhood and am now consistently snogging John Watson himself," he continues, turning around for another glance about. "Judging by the low human activity apparent here, that's more action than you've had since moving in."

"Hah," Mycroft chuckles in contempt. "He wouldn't come close to shagging you, though, would he? Not if it was your last day on Earth."

"Oh, no, we're shagging so much," Sherlock groans with a sarcastic eye roll. "Bold of you to assume that a five-minute spurt of temporary sexual contact is something I'm interested in when we're connected so deeply on an emotional level where it isn't even a necessity. Of course we're not getting each other off. We aren't prostitutes, for the sake of hell. Not like I at all expect you to understand the difference."

Mycroft hums. "Sex has never been much of an interest of yours, though, has it? Makes me wonder about your hormonal state. A bit worrisome, actually. If they've never acted up, you'd think you'd want to get that checked out."

Sherlock blinks warningly. "Are you suggesting that I'm a virgin, broken, or a prude?"

Mycroft considers this. "Yes."

"Well, you're wrong," Sherlock replies, "and if you think my way of feeling is so different from your own, then you can suck my cock yourself and see who else it tastes like."

Mycroft's eyes widen slightly. "Getting racy, are we?" he asks. "Do you really expect me to believe your apparent asexuality is something I shouldn't be concerned for?"

"Mycroft, if I ever think it's a concern, I'll see if my doctor can do something about it," Sherlock shoots back tauntingly. "By that point I'm sure he'd be overjoyed to rip off my pants and fix it himself—"

"Holmes!" a cheery voice greets him from the top of the stairs. Sherlock whips around to see Tom Sebastian Moran making his way to the ground floor. "Heard the news. Leading the Swings now, are you?"

Sherlock nods. "Incidentally, yes."

They shake hands, Tom's grip firm and sincere. "Well, I really do congratulate you."

"He's also been getting a lot of shagging in," Mycroft pipes up, and Sherlock closes his eyes in aggravation.

"Mycroft, would you lay off?"

"Gay shagging, too," Mycroft continues. "Steamy stuff."

"Well, of course it'd be gay," Sherlock barks back. "By the way I look and dress and even bloody move, one would think that part to be inherently obvious." He turns calmly back to a very amused Tom, taking a breath and continuing their conversation. "Thank you. We've been making progress."

"He wants to indoctrinate us into a revolution—"

"Mycroft. Shut up," Sherlock seethes. He grits his teeth as if they are made of steel. "But yes. Essentially, that's... quite honestly precisely what I came here to do."

"So what sort of revolution is this?" Tom asks. "Please know that I'm genuinely interested."

"Good," Sherlock replies, "because John is currently robbing your dear Hooper of water and plants since she won't give us any, so your interest gives us a big chance to not only win you over but distract you from the process."

"Oh?" Tom opens his mouth a bit, his eyebrows raising in subtle shock. "I... appreciate your honesty."

Mycroft rests the bridge of his nose between his thumb and first finger. "Sherlock, are you... on anything?" he asks. There are lines at the outer ends of his eyes; something Sherlock notices to be a new addition to the increasingly deepening folds in his stressed and aging face — eroding nooks and crannies in an already-cracked canyon.

"Surprisingly, I'm not," Sherlock replies. "Please listen in, though. This might be beneficial for both of you. Where are Hooper and Lestrade?"

"I'll get them both," Tom offers, rushing up the stairs once more and leaving Sherlock alone with Mycroft again.

Sherlock would be lying to say he doesn't mind being alone with Mycroft like this. No; he minds very much. In fact, he doesn't even want to meet his brother's eyes. He glares dishearteningly at the faded, damaged flooring that he knows Hudson could have been keeping nice and healthy if they had only allowed her to. He closes his eyes. Forces words out of his throat. He hates this kind of effort.

"Mycroft, if you say one more thing to anyone else, I'll mangle you so terribly that people won't even comment on your nose anymore."

Mycroft grits his teeth, knowing that poking menacing fun is his only way to escape that one. "At least I'll get more attention than your balls do."

There's an inconvenienced, dramatic sigh. Sherlock looks up at the ceiling in what feels to him like complete insanity, the jab detrimentally hitting him again and again in the same spot with the same point, which is good in terms of prediction, but terrible in terms of bruising. His last straw has been pulled. His final vial broken. He composes himself, forcing his own body out of the sensory overload he can feel creeping in.

"If you must know, and I'm only saying this for you to shut up because I'm not proud of it and it's deranged and sick and I did not enjoy it at all," Sherlock growls back, "I fucked Moriarty before I killed him. That was what? One? Two months ago? And when's the last time you've been engaged in anything of the like?"

It's quiet. Thank god.

Mycroft, surprisingly for the first time so far, does a double-take. "You—"

"Shut up."

And, finally, he does.

"Oh, it's Holmes," a female voice coos, and Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment of existential pain.

They both turn to the stairs to see Tom guiding Hooper and Lestrade down to the main level, and Sherlock nods, trying to pretend not to care that Hooper is giving him strangely affectionate eye contact from her spot — ironically in Tom's arms — on the stairwell.

"Fantastic. Now that you're all here..." He looks back at Mycroft, who still seems alienated by his sudden knowledge of his brother's sex life. "...let's begin."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

John steps inside.

It's dark. It smells of mildew, earth and impending mortal rivalry. Of course, Watson already has a strained relationship with Hooper after sacking her in the jaw. But this, he knows, will take the cake. He thinks it funny. He's a bit proud.

He's packed the necessities. Hudson's small knife is one, sheathed in ripped fabric and dangling off the side of his knapsack. She let him take it eagerly, practically tearing it out of her hand-sewn skirt pocket and slapping it into his hand with all the force (and then some) that a little old lady like herself could possibly muster. He's painfully aware of its position next to him, monitoring its swing, making sure he can still feel it there.

His vision is interrupted here and there by leaves dangling from the ceilings and growing up the walls. He wonders how all these plants are even alive with such minimal light, but he guesses there's some sort of light fixture to use when people are here that are actually supposed to be.

He tries to identify all the plants. He can't. He barely remembers any of them. He knows lettuce, kale, cucumber, pumpkin. But none of those are even here.

He kneels down next to one of the pots, looking down at the handwritten tag sticking up from the dirt. Reading it, he sighs and goes to the next one. Ivy. He has no use for that.

"Chrysanthemum..." he reads aloud to himself as he peers at all the labels. "Wheatgrass. C... Cannabis?" He smells a leaf. "Jesus Christ. How...?"

But he's interrupted as he hears a shuffle by the entrance. His heart leaping in his chest, he jumps between two tall, thick bush plants and presses himself against the wall. Peering between the leaves, he eyes the doorway, where he sees two faint silhouettes: one with a cane, and another with a bag.

"You don't reckon anyone'll find us here?" the one with the bag asks. It's a female voice. Foreboding, dark, raspy. A smoker, no doubt. Watson is overly familiar with the noise of smoked lungs.

"Nah. Look at this place," a lighter voice replies. This one's the limping one. "Nobody's touched this for months at least. Not since we've been here last."

"Don't touch shit," the first warns. "If Hooper knows we've been back here for our second share of the week-"

"Hooper won't be able to do a thing," the other interrupts, grabbing a shovel from the corner of the room with her free hand. "She knows she's working with two people who have far more power over her. We could shoot her on the spot if we wanted. There's no breaking ties with the police."

Watson feels his breath hitch. He tries his best to silence it, closing his eyes and hoping he's grimy enough to blend in with the foliage around him.

Hooper is working with the police?

"Alright, you win, Green," the one with the bag sighs. "But only three packs of seeds this time. If she sees less potato root than usual, I know she's not one to go down without bruising."

"Whatever. Help me break this lock."

"Oh, so we're not even gonna try to cover our tracks, hm?" the first asks. Green rolls her eyes and turns back to her.

"Well, Donovan, what do you expect?" she asks. Watson's tongue swells in his mouth. He's heard that name. Where has he heard about a Donovan? "Do you just know how to pick locks? Is that something you just have a knack for?"

"We're bloody law enforcement," Donovan snarls back. "We should have brought that pick with us. Why didn't you bring it? Wanted to make a scene, did you?"

Watson's eyes blink back open. He doesn't know what he's thinking. Or maybe he does.

His knife. His knife is attached to his bag by a piece of wire.

Wire that he can use to get into the room. To bypass the lock.

The two officers are quiet. There's an audible settling of the damp air around them. Donovan tips her head to the side. Her hand clutches her bag. Her teeth clutch thin air by its weak, breakable skin.

"Why... is it that you want to make such a scene?" she asks. Suspicion is permeating her tone. Green is silent.

Donovan wastes no time in her next move. Watson flinches as she grabs the walking cane out of Green's grip, moving it up and pinning it under her neck. Green is forced against the wall, her leg surprisingly not seeming to fail beneath her.

"Tell me. Tell me right now."

Green gasps as the cane is shoved deeper into her throat. "It's... nothing!" she croaks, but Donovan is unmoving. Gripping the handle of the walking stick, she inspects it, hearing a slight rattle inside and unscrewing it from its body. Picking it apart, she frowns as she pulls. Sliding out of the wooden frame, in all its glorious luster, the most reflective thing Watson has seen in years, is a long sword.

Donovan shoves Green against the door again.

"Where did you get this?" she asks, and, when she gets no response: "Where?!"

Green, whose throat is now pinned by Donovan's arm, gags as she chokes out a response.

"I can't," she breathes. Donovan knees her in the crotch; a move less damaging to women than men, but still undesirable at best. Green winces and tries to squirm off, but can't.

"You'll tell me who you got this from," Donovan breathes, her bared teeth inches away from the helpless skin on Green's nose, "because it's bloody obvious that the only reason you need a walking stick is protection. Your leg is working fuckin' fine. So you'd better fess your arse up before I use this against you."

Green chokes in air in small gasps, her brows furrowing as her face becomes paler. "I made a... deal," she whines, "with... Mr. Holmes."

Watson's blood, though already lukewarm, turns twice as cold.

Donovan throws Green to the ground, leaning over her with the tip of the sword aimed at her cheek. "Which one?" she asks. "This is important, Green."

And it's important to John, too. It could be either of them. Either brother could have easily made a pact with an officer, although he already has a slight suspicion regarding one in particular.

"Oh, God, don't cut me," Green breathes. "Don't cut me. It was Mycroft. Please don't cut me."

Donovan, breath heavy, steps back and points the sword at the door.

"Out," she says. "Right now."

And Green, with her two perfectly good legs, stands up and runs. Donovan, seething, watches her go, making sure the noise of her footsteps completely fades out before sighing and leaning back against the wall.

Watson's heart is heavier than his breathing. He has no idea why, but he intentionally rustles the leaves around him.

Donovan jumps back to her feet again, pointing her new sword in his direction.

"Hello?" she demands. Watson closes his eyes and collects his thoughts.

"Don't hurt me," he prefaces, clutching the knife in his bag. "I come in peace."

Donovan keeps the sword pointed, her eyes straining at the darkness. "And?" she asks threateningly, though Watson can hear the uneasy fragility behind it.

"And," he adds, taking the wire off the knife and bending it into a slight hook, "I think I can help you."

Donovan slightly lowers her weapon. Watson steps out.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Lestrade, upon seeing Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs, has pulled him into a weak hug. Holmes, feeling as if he's embracing his own child, gently hugs him back.

When he lets go, Lestrade half-stumbles into a sitting position on the bottommost step, his sickly thin limbs folding over one another as he supports himself. He doesn't say a word.

Holmes clears his throat, turning to the rest of the people gathered around him. His fingers slightly numb from his lack of nutrition but his spirit exceptionally energetic nonetheless, he states his complete intentions as quickly as he possibly can.

"Today is the beginning," he announces, looking over the blank faces ahead of him. "We've prepared for this for quite some time, creating signs and plans and connections. We've all done it in our different ways, some being fruitful and some..." He shrugs, giving his brother a side-eye. "...being stupid and completely unhelpful, but today is the day all of it will finally start to click into place."

"You're so smart," Hooper gushes, although there's a twinge of sarcasm behind it. Tom Moran ignores her and waits expectantly for Holmes to give any sort of explanation.

Sherlock absentmindedly rubs the scar on the bridge of his nose with his first finger as he continues. "Today, we will begin our public demonstrations. If any of this is news to you, here's a rundown: we'll be standing for the next few days in front of every public camera demanding to be freed from whatever the fuck this is. In a few days' time, John, Hudders and I will be fleeing to Denmark."

Mycroft seems to be bursting at the seams with repressed Hamlet quotes. Sherlock ignores his fidgeting.

"We are willing to take any of you, but we ask that you protest with us if you're coming. Is that clear?" he asks, and Hooper tips her head.

"So..." she says slowly, "you're leaving?"

"You're not?" Sherlock replies. "Really good opportunity. Wouldn't pass it up if I were you. Maybe... take a separate boat, though, really—"

They're both interrupted as Lestrade's hand feverishly grasps the railing of the stairwell and, although shaky, he pulls himself to his feet.

"I..." he says, slow and quiet, "will... do it."

Holmes blinks at the offer, painfully aware of Lestrade's vacillating knees. "Lestrade, you can be easily exempt from the protesting rule, given the fact that you're currently indisposed. We'd be happy to have you come with us to Denmark even if you stay and rest at home."

But Lestrade merely shakes his head, leaning against the wall as he waddles to the front door. "I," he repeats, a bit stronger now, "will do it."

He grabs the doorknob. It turns.

Click.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"Hey, you," says Donovan, stepping out of Hooper's underground greenhouse with Watson and handing back his little piece of wire. "Thanks for that."

John gives her a cordial nod as he ties it back onto his knife and dangling it from the side of his knapsack. His knapsack, which is now full to the top with seeds, soil, parts and plans to a water filtration system, and potato root, pulls roughly on his shoulders and digs into his clavicles. It hurts victoriously.

He opens his mouth to reply, but Donovan is distracted by a small earpiece she's wearing. It appears that she's receiving a message, because her brow crinkles and she quickly replies into the small attached microphone: "I'm on my way. Expect me in a while."

She gives Watson a complicated look, and he gives a confused one back.

"Crowd control," Donovan says vaguely. "They'd warned us about this. I'll see you out there."

And she leaves, jogging quickly to the end of the street and turning out of sight. Watson watches her go, momentarily wondering why it was so urgent that she had to leave.

But then he remembers with a blow to the chest and a twitch to the eye that today is protest day.

And it's likely just begun.

Alarm surges through him. He begins to sprint. The knapsack pains his entire body as he goes, the weight making him want to sink into the dust and dirt and never get up again. He knows he needs to drop it off at Adler's before all else, but it seems so far.

He pushes himself along regardless, and the run home feels like hell. But he's run through hell before; he can certainly handle this.

Upon arriving, he opens the door as quickly as he can, anxiously eyeing the street for any protesters who may be looking for a hideout. He throws the bag inside, his shoulders feeling immediately cured, and runs back out again, locking the door behind him and grabbing a bicycle from the Swings that Holmes has left tucked behind the rubbish bins on the side of the building. Of course he's prepared for this exact circumstance. Of course he's left it there for Watson to use because he knows full well that he's the only one out of the two of them that will need it today. He's good like that.

Watson bikes furiously throughout the streets, knowing they've likely started demonstrating at the Swings' place. He heads in that general direction, seeing a few groups of people scattered by each camera but not recognising Holmes — or anyone he knows, for that matter — in any of them.

As he gets closer, however, the crowds get bigger and the streets more populated. He speeds up, knowing he'll find someone soon enough. And, skidding to a halt, he does.

Holmes is handing out signs and markers in a large alleyway, showing people points on maps and directing them to spots all over London. Hudson is next to him, supporting a weak Lestrade on her arm and passing out small portions of beef jerky and water to anyone coming to the street. Watson leaves the bicycle and runs over to them, jumping up and giving Holmes a tight hug around the shoulders.

"Hey," he says as Holmes, shocked, hugs him back.

"Hey."

"I got the things," Watson says, pulling away again and grabbing a sign. Holmes nods, giving him a small smile and directing him to Hudson.

"Of course you did."

John gives Hudson a friendly kiss on the cheek as she hands him his small rations, awkwardly greeting Lestrade as he takes his small cup of water and downs it immediately. Looking around, he turns back to Holmes in slight concern.

"Where's Rosie?" he asks, to which Holmes motions with his head in a very unspecific direction.

"Moran and Hooper don't want to flee or protest, so they're taking care of her at home," he explains. "After they expressed their deep level of disinterest, I negotiated with them until they complied."

Mycroft, who has been silently leaning against the wall this whole time, makes his presence known. "He threatened to steal Hooper's plants otherwise. Ironically enough, you already had."

Watson nods, feeling torn about the oldest Holmes now that he knows about his involvement with the police. He feels his muscles tense, which Mycroft appears to notice with a suspicious air about him.

Before anything is addressed, Sherlock has pushed John over in the direction of all the signs.

"Grab a marker," he instructs as he hands a few pieces of cardboard to some new arrivals.

Watson doesn't move. "Why?"

"Because..." Holmes pauses, hesitating on his words in thought. "Just in case."

John doesn't like that response. Leaning over, he grabs a marker from its spot on the ground anyway, clenching it anxiously in his free hand.

"Alright," Holmes shouts at the gathering crowd as he hands out the last sign. "We're out of supplies, so you'll have to share. Please disperse so that all of these spots—" He points to the dotted map showing all camera locations. "—are occupied by at least one sign. If your sign happens to have a pile of any sort attached to it, please stick it in the ground and leave it overnight while nobody is out."

The swarm of people starts to thin, evening out as groups break off and move to different areas. Hudson takes Lestrade and Mycroft a few streets down, leaving a somewhat ungrounded Watson left seeming any sort of direction at all.

Holmes, who gives him an adoringly amused eye, leads him across the street to a corner with some people neither of them recognise. "This way."

They stand in the middle of the crowd, who is completely silent as they hold up their signs. More than numbers, they read; More than a show.

Each sentence has a large amount of blank space underneath. Watson slips his marker into his pocket and dreads the idea of what that's for.

With his free hand, because he's scared and insecure and has no idea what's going on, slips into Holmes' grip, interlocking their fingers as they both stare up at the camera. Sherlock gives his hand a light squeeze. He can feel his pulse.

And suddenly, there's uproar.

You see it on your little screens. I see it on mine. There isn't a single free camera. All are taken up by the noise of silent retaliation. And you start to listen. You start to think.

The media begins to speak.

"We're starting to be demanded," a worker says, switching all screens between camera views to desperately try and find an empty one. "The people want us to save them all. They want us to stop the broadcast."

I fear this. It gets me deep in the gut. I clear my throat in anxiety, panic easing slowly into my bloodstream.

"Call for extra crowd control," I say, and, turning to my employee: "Turn them off."

He gives me an estranged look. "The cameras, sir?"

My teeth grit together involuntarily.

"The cameras indeed."

And, for a brief moment, they're off.

Only we know what happens now. Because we can still see through them. The rest of the world, however, cannot.

"For Christ's sake, will you stop checking Twitter?" I bark at another employee, confiscating her phone. "We don't need more criticism. We need to think."

We all slowly turn back to our screens.

And, in all the commotion, the police have finally begun to shoot.

There are screams. Wails of pain and agony, gasps of grief. Some run. Some fight back. But Holmes and Watson do not move. They refuse to change their course.

They stare so strongly at the cameras, knowing fully that they're no longer broadcasting a thing, that it seems they're looking us dead in the face. Challenging our entire system by getting into our heads.

Watson flinches with every shot. Holmes is still. One is thinking about the war. The other remembers a man he killed twice.

We do nothing other than watch them back.

After a moment's silence, I sigh and remove my headset from my ears. I sigh. My employees sit with their favs in their hands.

"Alright," I sigh. "Nothing more will happen tonight. You can all take the night off."

We shut off our monitors. Holmes and Watson watch it happen.

We leave.

They stay.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Watson cleans wound after wound as people flock to him, bleeding out of every possible extremity, dragging long-dead relatives to him in false hope that they can be spared.

But it hasn't been terrible. Only four have died, and only thirty-two have been terribly injured. Holmes remarks detachedly that it could be much worse.

It takes hours for bullets to be extracted and wounds to be dressed. Watson slumps down against the nearest wall as it's all finished, breathing out in complete exhaustion as Holmes sits next to him. They lean sideways against one another, watching the sunset turn the dirty sky a deep, rotting red.

"So what now?" John asks, wondering if he'll ever feel energetic again. Wondering if he'll ever forget the war.

Holmes takes a while to prepare his words. Slowly, he swallows his sombre dread of tomorrow and replies as gently as he can.

"Remember the marker in your pocket?" he asks. A knot forms in Watson's throat.

"Yes," he says, slowly taking it out of his trousers. "Are you finally telling me what I'll need it for?"

Holmes closes his eyes and takes a long breath, the red sunlight staining his features and almost making him appear less troubled.

"We'll add a tally to every sign," he explains. "A mark for every person who has fallen. Because those are the numbers they're forgetting. Those are the digits we should be paying attention to."

Watson fixes his gaze on the marker. Such power it holds for such a small thing.

"We tally each fatality," he says, "and, even if it's bad, we keep going?"

Sherlock purses his lips, desperately yearning to either sleep or die; whichever comes first.

"We won't stop until we leave."

And they'll leave soon. Because it will get bad.

They'll leave because someone else is about to die.


	30. For Hudson

Perhaps it's something he gained from military experience, or perhaps its pure paranoia, but John Watson has a knack for knowing when he's going to have a shit day.

As he wakes up, he has this itching feeling that he's going to see awful things. And he shakes it away, but it creeps back regardless, hitting him relentlessly in the back until he sits up, wide awake.

He trusts his intuition. It tells him things when his surroundings don't. Much to his dismay, it's often right. And of course he'll see bad things today; it's demonstration day. Every day after today will still be demonstration day, even after they leave. Bad things will be happening even after they've escaped; the difference is just which side of the screen they'll be on.

But today in particular, the other side is prepared. The government knows what's happening and they're ready for it.

The sun has not yet risen, but he knows somehow that it's morning. The way the sky looks through the boarded windows of Adler's alerts him that it's probably around four.

Holmes is sleeping next to him on the floor, cradling Rosie in the crook of his arm over some padded blankets. Watson watches them both for a few minutes, loving them and, consequently, worrying about them both.

His eyes rest on Sherlock's innocent face, the scar on his nose, the peaceful expression he only has while asleep. There's a softness about him; one he remembers being present back when they first met, before things started to get worse.

He thought him to be a moth back then. Small and innocent and guided by light.

Is he still the same? Did the moth die when the wings were torn?

He gives it the benefit of the doubt. He likes to imagine that the old part of him is still there somewhere, through all the change and hardships and development. He likes to think that it's still rooted into Holmes' subconscious. Still in him. Still his identity.

He imagines wings off his back. It isn't hard to see them grown in his shoulders. It isn't impossible to imagine those same wings fluttering just like they used to. Torn and scarred and blackened like an old burn, but they're still there. They must be.

Watson changes his shirt, emptying his knapsack onto the floor and filling it with supplies for the rest of the day: water, first aid, his knife, the few pieces of jerky they have left. Watching it dwindle, he can feel his time in London coming to a close. A kick of excitement flows through his chest as he thinks of getting out of here. It's actually happening, and it will happen very soon. Things will become real. Reality itself will be reinvented, or rather restored. Each second brings him a step closer. It's coming.

With a hopeful feeling emanating through his ribcage, he reaches out and touches Holmes' shoulder. He feels him take in a sharp breath, lifting his head as his eyes drowsily snap open.

"John?"

Watson smiles softly, ruffling Sherlock's hair with his outstretched fingers. "Good morning, genius," he coos softly. "We have work to do."

Holmes gently lowers Rosie onto the floor, sitting up and squinting, disoriented, at the window. "What time is it?"

Watson shrugs. "Early."

"Good," Sherlock replies, jumping up and looking down at the knapsack. "Are we all ready?"

"As ready as we can be," John replies. "For the day, I mean."

Holmes nods, quiet as he thinks. Watson likes when he thinks. He likes to see his eyes squint and his vision gloss over as he focuses on things beyond the room that they're in. Things he'll never be able to see. Things he'll never know the look of.

"What's the plan?" asks Watson, and Holmes purses his lips, pointing at the others who have joined them overnight. Mycroft, Hudson and Lestrade sleep peacefully around the rest of the room, Kiwi huddled up next to them, her ears flopping over on the floor.

"I don't want Lestrade to come anymore," he replies. "Last time was too... He just... Not anymore. We can't risk any accidents when he's already so prone."

"Are we making him stay with Rosie and the dog, then?" John asks, and Sherlock nods.

"Mycroft and Hudders may join us. Not him. I won't allow it."

Watson nods. "Right."

He stands up, slinging the knapsack over his left shoulder. "Why don't you just leave them a note? Tell them who should come and where to go? Then we can walk on our own."

"Is it important to you that we do?" Sherlock asks, furrowing his brow. "Why? What purpose does that achieve?"

Watson thinks back to yesterday, to his time with Donovan, to the deal she spoke of making. He clears his throat, giving a forced shrug of false neutrality.

"I, um..." He takes a breath. "I think it would be nice to talk to you and let them sleep."

Holmes gives him a skeptical look, although he's already scribbled out a note and placed it at Mycroft's feet, gathering that if anyone is to take orders from anyone, it'll be him. Leading the way to the door and double-checking to make sure Rosie is comfortable and safe on her makeshift pad of blankets, e puts on his black coat for the first time in a long amount of months. John likes the coat. He likes how it frames his face, how it whishes behind him as he walks.

They leave Adler's place. Watson pulls the door shut behind them.

"So?" Sherlock asks immediately, his eyes searching every square inch of Watson's being, inspecting anxiously as he stares blankly back.

"What?"

Holmes narrows his eyes. "You have something to tell me. You didn't want to make it obvious yesterday, or just now when we were inside. But I know, John. I always know. What is it? If you're in mortal danger, you can—"

"Jesus, Sherlock," Watson interrupts airily, walking next to him and guiding them both down the cold and dark street. "I'm not in danger. I did learn some things yesterday, however. You might have interest."

"Things," Holmes repeats, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What... things... did you learn?"

The wind whistles itself around corners, carrying sand and dirt with it. Watson shivers, pulling his extra shirt tighter around his arms. Sniffling and wondering how exactly to word things, he opens his mouth and prepares to spill everything he's learned within the past twenty-four hours.

"How familiar are you with Officer Sally Donovan?"

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

They squint up into a camera.

There's no light on it. It's been turned off. Nothing is being broadcast. The signs themselves are too strong to be put on television.

Mycroft has since joined them, informing the two with a presentation on the screen of Watson's old phone that they've made the news. Somehow he's still connected to the internet, and John has the feeling that it was never something he figured out how to hack on his own, rather tapping in with a simple password given to him by his little officer friend, Donovan.

"The entire world is into activism now," Mycroft states emotionlessly, looking up into the dead camera. They feel suddenly safer here, a wall of disconnect separating them from the rest of the world. A wall they haven't had in years.

What year even is it? None of them are completely sure. All John knows is that it isn't 2007.

Sherlock picks a small stone up from the ground, tossing it at the wall in boredom. "Strange how people do that."

Mycroft nods. "They don't think on their own at all, do they? They only care about something when they think it's morally fashionable. Everything is a trend. They're all sheep in a herd. They could have cared about us since the very first time they glued their eyes to that television, but they looked past it because nobody else was making it into a statement. They absorbed every second of content, and it took them injuries and uprising to decide that something was wrong."

The sun is just rising. People are finally beginning to emerge into the streets, reviewing their maps and picking camera locations to cover. The two brothers and the soldier stay isolated, however, looking up at the lifeless piece of technology on the wall as if it's one of the most odd things they've seen. Of course, with it having been on for years prior, this likely is the case.

"You know why they've turned those cameras off, don't you?" Sherlock remarks, tossing another stone and bouncing it off the brick. "They think that if they don't show anything, we're completely under their power. They can do anything to us at all and the rest of the world will never know."

"They will, though," John counters. "They saw the cameras switch off. They saw what was happening before it. Don't underestimate the deducing skills of the general public."

"It's so easy to, though," Sherlock replies. "They're all so... so..."

"Careful, now," Watson warns.

Sherlock tosses a larger rock at the wall. It crumbles as it collides against it, and they all watch the dust fall to the street.

"All I'm saying is that I wouldn't put too much trust in them to come and save our arses," he summarises. "And that's why I've arranged for some help."

Mycroft narrows his eyes. "Help?"

"Oh, don't think I'm completely cut off from my position with the Swings," Sherlock replies. "There's a reason not too many people are out here now. They're all on their way to bring back transparency."

He throws another rock at the wall.

"They're rigging the cameras."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Footsteps don't dare make a sound in this hall.

They're inside Buckingham, scoping it out. They know where we are. They know we are here. Unfortunately for us, this isn't mutual. They're too good. Too quick. By the time we know anyone has entered, they'll have been long gone.

Our guards have been sent to manage the protests. All our security is down. They know this. They've known it for a while. Now is their golden hour, their perfect window of time to come and change our system.

They've found the file rooms. They've mapped it all out. One of them slinks their way into our monitoring room.

This is something that's been planned out well. She's been sent here specifically because she knows how to work things. She examines all the wires and camera views with silent interest, her torn old clothes contrasting so extremely with our clean, new equipment.

She opens a configuration box on our main monitor. It only takes a few moments of twisting wires and replacing them in alternate positions before permanent changes are made. The cameras have been turned on again and broadcast with no means of discontinuation. She's disabled the off switch entirely.

Her gaze scrapes over the main screen. She watches the streets from our view. She, for the first time, stands on the other side of the screen.

Protesting has already resumed.

She gathers everyone. They run.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

The world is met with a loud, circular noise. What looks like an oversized dragonfly makes its way into their vision, getting profusely larger as it begins to direct itself to the ground. Wind whips against their faces, the propellers spewing sand in every direction as it nears them. They dip their heads, covering their faces. It's a chopper, and it's the same one Watson arrived on.

It touches ground at the intersection just next to them, the blades turning off and slowing gradually as a door opens on the side and a young woman hops out. She approaches them with a clipboard and a headset attached to her left ear. Watson stiffens. He knows why she's here. The Holmes boys, however, appear completely lost.

"Hey, there," the woman calls out as she jogs over, stopping in front of them and putting her hands benignly on her hips. "We caught wind of your predicament and came to offer something."

She gives all three of them a long look-over before her gaze lands on John.

"You must be Watson."

John clears his throat and gives a short nod. "Yes. Hello."

The woman gives him a firm handshake before stepping back and looking through a few papers. "You used to be a medic for us up until the year 2007," she says, "and we'd like to let you know that, if you're willing to come back, we have room on the chopper for one more body."

Watson is silent. This offer comes as no surprise, but he has no idea how to take it. He can't leave. He can't escape one war just to reenter another.

"Of course," the woman adds, seeing his uninterested expression, "we do have other positions open. We're currently short of translators, especially those with knowledge of the Slavic regions of language."

Watson looks at the ground. It'd be so easy to leave. Yet so hard to go.

It tugs at his throat, his knees, his weakest points. It urges him to follow it, to take the easy path out. To escape early. But, just as strongly, like Newton's law itself, he's pulled equally back, drawn just as roughly to the comfort of Holmes and Rosie and the dog and the future they could all have if he just stays. It's hard for him to function. To speak.

"I don't know any other languages," is all he can utter out. Sherlock puts a hand on his shoulder, grasping it tightly in attempt to soothe whatever it is that's eating away at him.

"John," he says, soft and warm, "you should go. Escape. We'll find you."

His tone is earnest, unbothered. Watson turns to him, doubting if it's genuine.

He doesn't know what to think.

But he doesn't have to.

With a loud crack a street away, they're startled to hear what sounds like a gunshot and a deafening scream. Sherlock's eyes widen in alert, pulling them all down to duck as John fights the urge to dissociate. Such a noise is the easiest pathway to his memories. He doesn't want to remember. He doesn't want to see.

Another shot is fired. Another voice calls out. He digs his fingers into the roots of his own hair. His heart wavers, races, pounds, hesitates. He feels himself gasping as his palms move to cover his ears. He wants to go to sleep. He's scared. He wants to wake up somewhere else. He cant function completely. He can't decide. He can barely even hear.

Sherlock looks up at the other two. In a split decision, he shoves Mycroft to his feet.

"Mycroft," he whispers urgently. "Go. Go right now. Do you have John's phone?"

The older Holmes moves to stand, giving a quick nod. "I'll keep it. Call me when you get out?"

"Immediately," Sherlock replies. And, as the helicopter starts up again, the woman and Mycroft Holmes run back into it, and, in a matter of minutes, are completely gone.

John, who hasn't even realised that his eyes have been closed at all, opens them again. The chopper is up in the sky, heading East. He feels like he's going to throw up. He thinks he might die. At this point, it's hard to even tell he's alive.

He fights the feeling of limp arms and dead pulses against his thumb. He shakes away the visions of lifeless faces, of Cole, of every soldier he's let down.

He has to focus on something else. Something good.

So he looks at Sherlock.

Holmes stares blankly up at the sky, taking a deep breath in.

"He was always the cowardly one," he remarks quietly at Mycroft's trail, though Watson can see deep emotion behind his masked eyes. "Of course he takes the ticket out."

But this sentence barely makes it into Watson's head.

"Someone got shot," he gasps, his fingers tingling with the sensation of hyperventilation. Holmes kneels in front of him, giving him a good look-over before guiding him over to the wall behind them.

"Yes," he replies. "They did. And there are going to be more. Sit here."

"I have to go and..." Watson stops to dry-heave at the ground. "I have first-aid in my..."

"They're dead, John," Sherlock murmurs, placing one hand on either of his shoulders. "Look at me."

It takes him a moment of hesitation, but Watson finally does. Holmes holds up his first finger with a concentrated look about him, his gaze completely concentrated as he begins to move it slowly from side to side.

"Watch it," he instructs. "Psychology trick. It'll help."

John does as he's told, his gaze following Sherlock's finger from left to right as he steadies his breathing. His hands start to regain their feeling. His head starts to regain itself.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he whispers, and Holmes shakes his head and stands up.

"Nonsense," he replies, walking over to the street corner and glancing out to check on the damage. "You haven't even eaten any—"

But he cuts himself off with a choking noise. His palm hitting the brick wall, he almost doubles over as he looks out into the next street. John's heart stops in his chest.

His breathing becomes short again. He leans forward as if this could possibly help him get a better view. He's quiet, unsure, terrified.

"Sherlock?"

Holmes is still for a long time. He doesn't turn back. He looks down at the ground. His voice comes out in a whispery groan.

"Oh, my god."

Although his knees are weak, Watson springs to his feet, his volume getting louder as he receives no reply. "Sherlock, what is it?" he demands urgently, hurrying up next to him to see with a mortified sinking of his stomach that Holmes looks like he's going to cry. His hand is painfully clamped over his own mouth, his eyes wide and glossed over as he looks into the street.

John braces himself for whatever he sees. He follows his gaze.

"Oh, my god," he hears himself breathe. The air in his lungs knocks itself out of him. "Oh, god. No, no, no, no."

There are two bodies in the street. One is unfamiliar. One is their home.

John notices that he's running. His feet scrape against the sand-laden concrete below him as he painfully makes his way to the body. He falls to his knees in front of it, barely noticing the pain of the impact. The shock overrides it.

"No," he repeats desperately. "Mrs. Hudson. Breathe. Please breathe. Oh, my god."

Hudders bleeds out of a chest wound right in the centre of her left lung. She's sprawled out, as if having flopped over, unconscious before hitting the ground. John presses a finger to the wound. He checks for a pulse. Holmes timidly and shakily walks up behind him.

"We can't lose her, John."

Watson's breath catches, his throat tightening. "You don't think I know that?" he seethes. "Shut up. Do something. Get my bag."

"John, what if..." Sherlock's voice is cut off by a soft sob, and Watson can feel him beginning to freeze in place. "What if we have to...?"

"Get my goddamn bag!" John interrupts, pointing furiously at the street corner. Sherlock nods and retrieves it, desperately ripping the top open and pulling out whatever he can possibly find.

"It isn't enough, John," he whispers, looking through all the supplies. "None of our equipment can possibly... Oh, no. John, I'm..."

He drops all the items, burying his face in his hands.

"John, I'm scared."

Watson says nothing, desperate, defeated anger boiling up inside him as he tries to stop the bleeding. Tears fall over the rims of his eyelids. He ignores them. This can't happen.

"Hudders," he whispers, as if she can possibly hear them. "I need you to stay with us."

"Mrs. Hudson, we love you," Holmes sniffs softly. "Please don't... Don't..."

But he stops, looking up to see exactly what did the hideous deed. His eyes meet those of a middle-aged man standing frozen nearby. He's holding a handgun in his right hand. He doesn't move.

It's a police officer. One here for crowd control. And he's shot Hudson.

Sherlock Holmes stands up. The wind whips against his shirt, his hair, pushing against him as he begins to approach the man. He becomes faster. He starts to run.

The officer turns and bolts away, a second or so too late. Holmes is catching up, his teeth bared and his face distraught and completely livid. He feels a wordless call escape his throat as he grabs the officer's shirt and throws him down. His body hits the ground with a scraping thud as Holmes goes down on it, grabbing his gun out of his hand and beating the corner against his face.

"Fuck you!" he spits down at him, slapping the weapon against his cheek. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

He feels the presence of another officer nearby. He doesn't stop. He doesn't rethink a thing.

The man below him is gushing blood out of his nose, sputtering as it runs back into his throat. Holmes sobs and shakily shoves the barrel of the gun against his bruised and bleeding head, aiming right into the man's temple. He tries to make himself pull the trigger. He tries again. He tells his finger to just pull a little more.

But it's hard.

He breaks down as he looks into the scared, shaken eyes of the officer. They watch one another, Holmes conflicted and completely unstable as he abruptly understands that the life he's threatening to take is just as much of a life as Hudson's. The soul is just as much a soul, the wings just as natural.

He can't shoot him. He can't kill another person.

He drops the gun, his every limb shivering in trauma as he stands and faces the three other police that have since gathered around the scene. Grief overtakes him. He points at them, his heart blackening with each syllable he utters.

"And fuck you, too!" he adds. "Fuck you for just standing there. Fuck you for carrying through with something so vile. If you were unaware of its absolute terror, you would have shot me by now. The cameras are on! All of them! They hear exactly what I'm screaming. They hear every over-censored fucking word!"

The bleeding officer sits up, his hand grasping at the handle of his gun. Holmes looks blankly down at him, his breath wavering as he's overtaken by waves of different emotions regarding the man.

"Shoot me," he challenges. "Shoot me right in the lung. Shoot me just like you shot Martha Hudson. Shoot me for saying a word you don't like. I dare you."

But none of them move, standing completely still and glancing up at the cameras. Something about this clicks in Sherlock's brain, and he follows their gazes to the bunking green light of the security lens on the corner. He turns back to them, feeling as if he's put them in checkmate. Because he realises suddenly that he's completely protected.

Yes, of course. The media loves him. All people can do is follow C2309. And if they were to let him die...

This is why he survived being stabbed. Why he's survived chases and beatings and conflict. This is why he hasn't starved, why Watson was delivered a pack of baby formula. This is why he can break one of the current most lethal laws in the middle of London in front of police and not lose his life for it.

Sherlock Holmes can do whatever the hell he wants. He's untouchable. As long as he has a camera, and as long as nobody's forgotten he exists, reality as he knows it is completely his own.

To test them, he charges at the officers ahead of him. They flinch, but they do nothing else. He stops, nods. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Things make sense now.

But he's distracted now by a reminder of a different reality. Something close. Something here and now.

"Sherlock."

He turns to see a pained expression on John's face as he kneels with Hudson halfway down the block.

"Come here."

Holmes steps lightly, his consciousness out of place in his own body as he moves quietly over to two of the people he loves most in all the world. John wipes tears out of his own eyes with a flattened palm, the tips of his fingers stained with Hudson's blood.

"Sherlock, she's..." He stops, visibly agonised by what he's about to say.

"She still has a pulse."

Holmes strangely feels nothing as he hears this, staring down at her and swallowing the dry anger out of his throat.

"What do we do?"

John packs his bag up again, slinging it over his shoulders and lifting Hudson off the ground. He carries her as one would a sleeping child, one arm under the knees and another under the back, in a direction that Sherlock really doesn't like.

"Thames." Holmes guesses.

Watson gives a blank nod.

They walk in silence.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

They begin to run about half an hour later when more shots are fired.

This batch is larger than the first by a significant bit, screams and agonised wails prominent in the still, hot air. There are quick footsteps behind them. Holmes glances back to see one of the Swings.

They've returned, he realises. And they're being ridiculed for protesting. They're being killed off merely for being on their side.

The person runs towards them, her hand furiously gripping her own arm, which they see is bleeding beneath her palm. She pants, her face pale with pain as she catches up to them.

Holmes opens Watson's knapsack, taking a fresh bandage out and wrapping it tightly around the wound as a temporary hold. He meets her pained expression, hardening his own and straightening his spine.

"Consensus," he orders coolly, and the girl nods.

"Cameras are on," she breathes. "We found a room with a bunch of files in it. Yours are in there, for sure. It's the room just down the hall from where they keep their monitors. It'll help to have all your government information when you go."

Sherlock nods, feeling John's impatient gaze on him, knowing they'll need to keep going as soon as they can.

The woman grips her bandaged wound. Seeming lost, she clears her throat and avoids the sight of Hudson in Watson's arms.

"What do we do now?" she asks. Holmes purses his lips and takes a long breath in.

"Back there, just now," he asks, "how many died?"

The girl is quick with an answer. "So far, nineteen, sir."

Sherlock closes the top of John's knapsack again and motions with his head to the nearest camera. "Add twenty-one tallies to every sign," he instructs. "And try to stay alive. If you're living by the end of the day, we can properly fix that arm up."

The girl nods. "Thank you," she says curtly, and promptly turns away and runs back into the centermost area of their demonstration, leaving Holmes and Watson to crumble in their own grief over a woman that isn't even dead yet.

Hudson still breathes shallowly in John's strong arms, blood exiting her mouth in a small trickle just as steadily as it runs out of her chest. They've reached the river now. Just a few more steps and they'll touch the crumbling, rusted railing.

Sherlock wipes a few stray tears away from his eyes again, looking down over the edge and into the water. It's brown and it smells atrocious, and every now and then he'll see an arm or a skull. He hasn't looked into this river for years, but it really hasn't changed. It forces a few more sobs as he thinks about sending his beloved Hudders down into such hell. She lived through enough; the least they can do is let her die well.

"We can't drop her in," he decides aloud, his voice weak as it trembles. "Not while she's still... while she's here."

Watson gives a rough nod. His eyes are glazed over, though his expression is blank and jagged, as if he's completely readopted his stance from the war. His emotions are there, but too deep to leave through tears. They've buried themselves in his insides, tying and looping through all the veins and muscles and promising to stay there, just as trapped there as he is here.

"You're right," he agrees, his tone low and broken. His eyes wander around, landing on a figure walking along the bridge. A figure we sent there ourselves. "Look."

Holmes squints our at it, knitting his brows together. He sniffles, watching as it slowly becomes more clear. "Is that Donovan?"

And so it is.

Sally Donovan, in full uniform, approaches them on our command, giving a feelingless wave as Watson beckons her over. She casts a sideways glance at Holmes, who returns it sourly as John focuses on keeping his emotions steady.

"Who sent you here?" he asks quietly. "Because someone did. It's too perfect. You're just in time."

Donovan avoids the question, looking solemnly down at Mrs. Hudson. "You want me to save her, don't you?" she assumes roughly. "Because we can't. Nobody cares about her. They won't even try. Not to the extent that they keep you both alive."

Holmes' voice is tight as he replies. "What do you mean, nobody cares about her?" he asks, his face obstructing into something so much more torn than it already has been. "We do."

Sally gives an empathetic smile, shaking her head in reply. "You aren't anybody except for pixels on a screen," she explains. "You aren't the audience. In the eyes of the people behind the cameras, you don't count. None of us count. We're not real to them, you know. We're just characters in a show."

A slight wind picks up around them, pasting their own tears to their skin as Donovan watches Hudson breathe, still unconscious, dying slower than she's ever deserved. Holmes clears his throat, motioning to the gun strapped to Sally's waist and urging himself to keep it together. He takes a wavering breath.

"Shoot her," he commands. Asks. Pleads. "Get it done. Make it end."

Donovan removes the handgun from its holster, cocking it and taking the safety off with the click of a button.

"In the head?" she asks tonelessly, and Sherlock nods, noticing that he's crying again.

"In the head," is all he can bear to whisper.

Watson sets her body down, leaning her back against the railing so her head leans over the river itself. Donovan's grip on the gun quivers. It's only now that Holmes deduces she's never actually shot someone before. He isn't wrong.

Watching her question her own ability to complete such a request, he lets her stall. He focuses on what matters. He thinks about Hudson.

"Do you think," he prospects, his tone thick with the tears that haven't escaped his eyes yet, "if her heart is beating, that she can hear us?"

It's only now that Watson's shoulders begin to shudder. It's now that he breaks down, hiding his face in his hands before taking a steadying breath and looking back up again.

"I think," he replies, looking over at the woman they're about to lose, and the woman that'll help them do it, "that she can always hear us, no matter what."

Sherlock nods, as if this is comforting. He gives a soft giggle, not sure whether he should laugh or cry harder. "Even when she's got earplugs in and she's hoovering the carpet," he adds, to which Watson gives the same confused laugh, the action ending in another silent sob as they turn distraught again. Donovan, taking a long breath, points the gun at Hudson's head, pressing it against her temple. Holmes watches, knowing he's about to say goodbye to the mother he never had, the friend he never lost, the anchor that was always latched you the edge of his boat. His lip quivers as he says one last thing.

"We love you, Hudders," he gasps, choking on his own sobs as Donovan tightens her grip on the trigger.

It's over in an instant.

The sound itself is startling, booming and loud, as if they themselves are the ones being shot. But, with a few echoes, it's gone.

The gore itself is haunting. But a lot of Mrs. Hudson is still in tact. Watson squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, reminding himself to just look at the right half of her face. He owes it to himself. He has enough pain already.

He checks her pulse. He checks her breathing.

He confirms with a nod of the head that Martha Hudson is gone.

"Thank you," he whispers to Donovan, who offers a pained smile before turning away and leaving them behind. She doesn't see them work together to carry the body farther down the bridge before tossing it over and watching it fall. She doesn't see Holmes vomit over the edge at the reality of it all.

But it happens, and Holmes and Watson sit back against the railing and look up at the sky, giving minutes upon minutes of silence, taking it all in, letting it all out.

At some point, they turn to one another, each embracing the other with the tightest hug in the world. They sob into each other's shoulders, their tears mixing with the blood on their shirts. Although tears, they decide, aren't much different than blood. They come from the same pain, giving off even the same deep, salty taste. The only difference is the colour.

"I love you," says John, because he feels as though it has to be said. Sherlock nods desperately into the crook of his neck, pulling him even closer and gripping with a tight fist to the back of his shirt.

"I love you, too."

They sit there for a long time before pulling away, facing one another as they cry. Watson swallows, turning and looking over at the water, which has since covered Mrs. Hudson and completely washed her away.

"We're going to get out of here," he says. "We're going to do it."

Sherlock nods, wiping his eyes with his palm and a quick twitch of the nose.

"For Hudson," he chokes out, and John nods, firmly grabbing his hands with a sudden gratefulness at the fact that they're both still here, together, alive, and the determination to keep it that way until their future and Rosie and the dog and everything is safe in a cottage in Denmark, and the reality of London is all just a memory. A bad dream. A lost story, behind them forever. Gone.

He confirms the statement, his words stronger now than he feels they ever have been. Through the tears, he agrees, pledging a toast to the one they've lost.

She sits in the river. They sit in her memory.

"For Hudson."


	31. Bleaching the Records

They've always wanted to enter Buckingham together, but they never imagined it'd be anything like this.

They thought it would be more lighthearted, or quicker, not shadowed by the loss of a person or the stress of an uprising. Strange how things turn out.

The floors are dirty and peeled, the walls dark. They're covered in layers to hide their faces, though it's pointless, and they know it's pointless. They're tracked regardless, and it'd only take a few seconds to identify who they are. Quicker than slaughtering a lamb. Easier, even. But they trek on regardless, a Holmes and a Watson, dragging themselves through the halls of the one thing that's been able to contain them even though they haven't yet stepped inside it in such a circumstance.

"Do you have a passport?" Holmes asks, his voice muffled by the fabric wrapped around it.

"Yeah," says Watson, and Holmes nods in relief.

"Thank god. That takes time off our trip by incredible amounts."

Each of their footsteps echo emptily on the chipped and dirtied wallpaper, their breaths even, their every move as cautious as a mouse on a cat-protected floor. Watson looks anxiously around the corners before passing them. It reminds him of the war.

"What's the plan?" he asks softly, his eyes wide, focused. "Is there a plan?"

"Of course there's a plan," Holmes replies sarcastically — scoldingly, almost — and they creep forward again, climbing a flight of stairs. "We grab as much as we can. Maps, codes, our legal documents; whatever we can find. It would be ideal to clear murder off my record, too. Denmark might be a bit more accepting of someone who hasn't freely killed someone else."

"Do you think they've logged it?" Watson asks in return, looking in each room as they pass it. "You killing Moriarty?"

Holmes shrugs. "As I've done it twice, the chances that they did have increased substantially. I was in the spotlight both times."

Watson fixes him with a blank look. "So you think they—"

But he's cut off as Holmes grabs his arm and pulls him around a corner, dodging an office cubicle that appears to be very occupied. His breath hitches in his throat as he gathers his senses, John's knuckles bright white as they grip his own arms.

They try to be silent, but they've been heard. The cameras may not be watching them, but we can hear their breath, their steps, their fear.

It is I who is sitting at that desk in that cubicle, although I have not recognised them just yet. I stare down at my paperwork. They inch across the room.

"Who is it?" I call out, not bothering to turn my chair around. There's a pause, but I hear footsteps making their way to the cubicle on the other side of my own, separated by a thin cardboard wall.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," a voice replies, and I match it to the coworker that I believe it to belong to.

"Back from break, Bill?" I assume, naturally, and there's the faint sound of a clicking keyboard.

"Yep."

"Mm," I reply, as if this is at all fruitful as a conversation. "Anyone try to break in while you were out there?"

"Strangely, no," he says, scuffling some papers around. I furrow my brow.

"Strangely?"

A pause, a breath. "Well, you know, because they're trying to leave."

Finally, I look up, though I'm met by that dividing wall. I speak to it as if I am speaking to Bill himself. At the time, I am under the impression that I am.

"Who's trying to leave?"

There's more computer clicking, and an eventual answer:

"C2309, apparently. Heard rumours they're gonna sneak in and grab all their files."

I look down again. "Huh. Well, of course they are."

We are both quiet then, and I circle a few document notes before he speaks again.

"Do you think we should secure them?"

I stop. "Secure what?"

"The files," he replies, and his vocal tones match Bill's just enough where I question nothing. And how stupid. How idiotic. "I could lock them up. Do you have them on hand?"

"I've got his whole social circle," I reply, sending a stack of manila envelopes over the cubicle wall. He grabs them, and I notice a strangely familiar coatsleeve on his wrist. How odd of him to be wearing a coat. And where would he have gotten such a thing? It isn't like you can simply buy one in this godforsaken place.

And so, with this mere suspicion alone, my mind is pulled entirely out of my work. I am forced into being present. And I understand.

"Bill," I say slowly, standing slowly up from my seat, "I thought you were out with an injury."

Standing up fully now, I hear the person on the other side of the wall freeze, and I stretch my toes to peer over the edge. My hands push against my stacks of documents, my pens, my engraved name plate that sits on the very edge and reads ARTHUR, DOYLE C. in bold silver.

I am met by two faces. One is blond and terrified, still as he stares back. The other, reclined in Bill's office chair, stares back at me with a fiery, intense smirk.

"Thank you," says Sherlock Holmes, and I immediately reach for my gun, but he holds up a hand. "That truly won't be necessary. Don't waste bullets when we're in a stone-walled room. One ricochet of your fire and it'll come right back and hit you in the back of the head."

He smiles, and I glower down at him. Watson slips away, but I do nothing to chase him. He's not dangerous. He's not who we've been monitoring. Holmes takes a long breath, twirling himself around in the chair like a child, to calm, too collected.

"Why is it that you're doing this?" he asks coolly, and I do not need to clarify what he means.

"It's my job to protect the queen and her land," I reply breathlessly, my hand still on my gun, although it quivers. "She even gave me a title for it."

Holmes scoffs and mocks my words. "'She even gave me a title.' How heartwarming."

My breath catches in my throat. I cannot bring myself to admit aloud that I am intimidated, but it is clear that this is already known.

"Give me those files back," I command, and he stands, putting his hands in his pockets and turning them out. I look down in horror as he begins to leave the room, nonchalantly brushing some dust off the top of the cubicle wall and turning the corner.

"Sorry," he replies soothingly, "Watson has already carried every single one out of your front doors. And you may want to consider firing your staff; nobody has been guarding them for the past forty minutes."

And then he's gone, leaving me to shakily flop down into my seat.

He's leaving.

They're leaving.

Oh, fuck.

I close my holster, holding my face in my hands and picking up my radio instead. Hitting the button on the side and speaking into it, I hear my voice waver with my confidence. My breath is jagged. My hopes are split. I glare at the doorway that he left from, pondering aimlessly over how fluid and cool he remained. How, if I wasn't looking too closely, I would assume he wore wings.

"Stolen files," I report. "I repeat, stolen files."

I take a breath to steady myself.

"Find John Hamish Watson at once."

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

"John! John."

Holmes yells it as he sprints down the road in the direction of Watson, who he has found only by process of elimination; he knows where he went because he knows where he wouldn't go, which certainly counts for something.

Watson stops and turns, giving him a look of alarm as he waits for him to catch up.

"What?" he asks. "We were caught. Are they gonna come kill us both now? Come blow our brains out? Are we never escaping?"

Holmes pauses, giving a casual shrug. "Well... potentially, yes, but less likely than us simply escaping them as we enter the crowds that outnumber their men." He smirks, the scar over the bridge of his nose crinkling the skin around it, his eyes filling with light and his feet eager to move. "Come on, Watson; don't tell me you aren't excited by it all."

"Running from death?" John replies. "No. I've just had too much of it. In Afghanistan, it's all I ever did. I wanted to come home and leave it all behind and—"

"You aren't in Afghanistan."

Watson stops. It isn't often his sorrows are challenged.

"What?"

Holmes begins walking again, leading the way down the alley and checking around the corner for officers. "You aren't in Afghanistan. This situation is separate entirely. No need to bawl unless you want them to hear us."

John blinks. "Hear us. So we are on the run."

"Yes," Sherlock replies. "Problem?"

"Let me number the list," Watson grumbles, and Holmes hands him an envelope. "What's this?"

"Hudson's files," Holmes replies. "She's dead. The police don't want them."

"So you're giving them to me why?"

"Because I told them you had all our documents," Holmes explains simply, "even though I do. Or I did; technically I don't anymore. They're all in that little envelope, and you are to tell them it's just Hudson's and that I took the important ones, which are currently just empty folders."

Watson turns the envelope over in his hands, feeling the weight that's just slightly heavier than he'd imagined, examining the flap that's been perfectly closed after having been stuffed with other papers. A genius diversion, he decides. Absolutely foolproof.

But as the sentence sinks in, he gives a start. "I... tell them? Tell them when?"

"They're going to question you," Holmes says, ignoring the question and naturally raising Watson's anxiety to an incredible degree. He speaks very quickly, every word becoming faster and quieter as they reach a corner with a camera on it. "You are going to tell them that you just have that file as a keepsake. They'll have half their troop return to the palace to look for the other ones while half of them come searching for me. Meanwhile, you are going to find the largest protesting spot you can — the one with the most people — and wait for me there. They will not shoot me. The cameras are on. We have nothing to worry about."

"And when I get to the protest," Watson replies, "what do I do with the—"

"Pants," Holmes says. They stop and stare blankly at one another as John begins to figure out that he isn't even remotely joking.

"You mean...?"

"Yes, I mean that you are to shove the envelope far down enough so that it sits between your pants and your ass," Holmes deadpans. "Or your dick, actually; they're terrified of looking there."

Watson takes a breath to process all the information, glancing at the camera across the street.

"Of course," Holmes adds with an amused grin, "you could always rip them up and burn them, which is preferable as they must be destroyed anyway."

John gives him a glare. "I thought we need them to get out of the country."

"I'd rather have a lack of records and refuge than records and a murder charge," Holmes states simply, giving him a wink and tucking the empty envelopes into his pocket. "Denmark may be a bit more inclined to let us in without homicide trailing behind us."

"But the people of Denmark have seen us on television," Watson says. Holmes shrugs.

"But the records haven't."

John leans back against the brick wall behind him, and they stare the empty road down, their eyes following the dust and stone and eroded walls around them. How incredible that they've survived years in this climate. They've been starving and running from murderers and avoiding brain disease since 2007, which was a long time ago now. Watson doesn't even know what year it is now. All he knows is it's been a few winters since, and that's his only gauge on it all.

“So they’re coming after us,” he sighs. Sherlock nods and prepares himself to leave.

“Yes, I imagine they’ve seen us on their cameras now and will arrive in a few minutes. When you see them, run,” he replies. “I’m leaving you here. Tell them you don’t know where I’ve run off to, because it’s true, although you are free to point them in this direction.” He nods to his left, and Watson nods.

“Good,” he says, deciding to accept all this havoc. Remembering all the things he’s living for, fighting for like Macduff himself, staying alive to love and take care of and spend his life with, he decides it’s worth all the effort and self-sacrifice he’s got left in him. So he agrees. As long as it’ll get them out, he’ll do anything. “I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll be home in time for dinner,” Holmes jokes as he begins to walk off. “Can’t wait for your famous homemade ‘one square centimetre of jerky.’”

John snorts, and Sherlock gives him a suave nod before turning his back completely to him and running off down the road. With the envelope heavy in his pocket, John leans back against the wall and waits.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

It’s the familiar stairs of the hospital that Holmes finds himself walking up, the railing like a close relative as he feels it’s familiar personality beneath his tense fingers. He remembers conversations with Watson on these stairs; things about the Titanic and Hooper and plants, and it reminds him somewhat of life now. But it’s different in the present. It’s quieter, more tense, the risks graver, and there are no plants awaiting him in the next room. There’s nothing but emptiness and memories, and he’s here all alone.

He steps onto the roof and looks down. He remembers this view. He remembers John and Jim and death. He would barely be surprised if his nemesis walked back out again and proclaimed himself reborn now. It wouldn’t be the first time. But Moriarty doesn’t come back. He’s dead irreversibly now. No matter how hard they try, the government can’t bring you back days after a fatal heart attack. It’s almost peaceful to realise such.

Holmes sees Watson far below him then, running down a nearby street as four officers bolt after him. He sees them press him against one of the decomposing walls, but before John turns out his pockets and shows them the one envelope closed and labelled “Martha Hudson” in printed monospace letters, Sherlock has already made his way off the roof and down the many stairwells, running out the front doors and making for the nearest alley. It won’t be long now. He feels it. He can taste it in his lungs.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

As two of the officers run back to Buckingham as expected and the other two follow Holmes’ trail, Watson is left with a very important envelope that he sticks back into his pocket, gathering all his bearings before running off toward the centre of town. It won’t be too long before they find he’s had everything all along, and what then?

Bolting into an alley, he speeds up, his shoes splashing in a puddle of what looks like blood (it’s not even strange that he doesn’t give this a second thought) as he skids around the corner only to stop dead in his tracks.

He’s met by a familiar face and an even more familiar handgun, which is cocked and pointed straight at his forehead.

It’s Officer Donovan, who squints menacingly at him as he prepares to give up the files again, assuming she knows all there is to know about their little heist.

But he’s taken by surprise as she motions sideways with her head, baring her teeth.

“Here’s the plan,” she says, her voice low as to not be heard by any cameras. “You’re going to run to wherever you need to go, and I’m going to look like I’m chasing you. Be convincing. Understand?”

Watson, alienated by this strange turn of events, merely begins to run, heading for streets with more cameras as Donovan chases halfheartedly behind. Passing another alley, he catches a glimpse of none other than Sherlock Holmes, surrounded by two officers who give Sally a curt nod as they pass. Holmes also offers a knowing glance at Watson and a tight smile at Donovan, handing over the stack of empty envelopes to the officers. The officers, of course, who take them with the foresight of a bat and blindly confiscate them, not even considering that they might be empty.

~𝔭𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔟𝔢~

Holmes finds Watson again in the centre of town, his coat loose over him as he approaches. The setting sun turns the polluted sky a bright red, which reflects firelight off the crescents of his eyes. They stand with a rather large group in front of a camera, and Watson finds himself staring straight into the lens with a feeling of sudden reservation, barely even bothered anymore by the stress of everything around him.

Holmes elbows him softly, leaning down to his ear. “Still have the files?”

“Right against my cock,” Watson jokes, and it takes Sherlock a moment of legitimate thought to realise that he isn’t being serious at all. John sets the envelope in Holmes’ open palm before turning around to the crowd behind them and whispering a soft request to them all.

“Anyone have matches or a lighter?” he asks, and hushed whispers fill the street. They stand and wait for a moment before a shuffling occurs to their left and a matchbox is passed up front.

Holmes faces the camera, taking one step towards it and glaring up at its very centre as he opens the envelope, pulling out the contents and discarding it on the ground. It isn’t blown away; there is no wind and he honestly cannot remember when there last was.

Shuffling through the sheets of paper, he finds the desired sheet. He holds it up.

C2309. It’s printed on the top of the sheet in bold, and, for a split second, he shows it to the eyes of the entire rest of the world.

“For Hudson,” he says. The crowd behind him repeats it.

“For Hudson.”

“For London,” he adds. The responses grow louder.

“For London.”

Grabbing a match, Sherlock strikes it against the box, the flame barely illuminating him any more than the already-crimson sky.

“For us!”

The people yell it like a war cry.

“For us!”

The match is held to the corner of the stack of papers, and it burns. Holmes holds it in his hand as the flaming corner spreads to the entire stack, the people behind him repeating the phrase with him as he hollers it at the camera, at the wires, at the wall, at the world.

“For Hudson!” he calls until his throat is hoarse. “For London! For us!”

The call can be heard for miles, the chant looping over and over again as the paper burns and we have no choice but to sit and watch it. We see the signs with the tallies. We see the records being destroyed. We see a revolution that not even gunshots can put a halt to.

The paper is completely burned, and it is dropped to the ground. The words remain.

“For Hudson! For London! For us!”

After years of the people divided against each other, the gangs and the common people separated by fear and murder, they have finally changed and turned against the root of their problems; the reason they are all standing here at all.

They’re standing against us.

We understand that coverage of this will only make the world stand against us, too.

“Doyle?” a coworker asks unsteadily, watching me as I look at our camera footage. Her arms are crossed in concern. She isn’t sure what to do. Frankly, neither am I.

After a moment, silently, I smile. Because if I’m being entirely transparent, I'm proud of them. They've come far.

I ought to write this down, I remind myself.

Our cables have been rewired to continue broadcasting without our control. I know this. We all do. But we must discontinue it one way or another.

“Get me the wire clippers,” I command, and she is out the door and back in under a minute. The plierlike handles are heavy and comforting in my hands, and I give one last good look at the footage before me. Then, I kneel down below the desk, following each wire for as long as it goes, making sure every single one is accounted for.

I bunch them together between my shaking fingers. With one crackling clip, they’re all split in half.

Our computer screen goes dark. International televisions fuzz with the sudden change to black screens. And, in Central London, above the remaining asked of a burning stack of papers, before the eyes of hundreds of protestors and a genius in front of them all, the blinking light beneath the camera turns itself off, never to resume for the rest of time.

They all go home. They don’t know what else they can do.

They leave the signs and the ashes. The sun sets. And, like the camera, the sky turns darker than it’s been, and will be ever again.


End file.
